#and toxins beneath the city...

[ramblingsonic]

Okay, so I guess the prior mentioned radiation poisoning is just from the city itself- I mean, Mecha Madness did nuke the place after all, so I guess it'd make sense some of that would linger in the sewers and underground (either that, or Eggman's started dumping waste underground and such). I guess that might also be why Kodos was so stupid with his whole "I wont need anyone" shit, when Arachnis was still actively working with him (that is to say: brain damage is a good excuse for stupid and arguably out of character behavior. I understand TF2 fans are familiar with that copout retcon explanation).

Anyway, what you thinkin' Nate, hmm???

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR IV

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.5k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: Y'all do you know how hard it was to flirt using science and the topic of joker toxin?! I think I rewrote this chapter over ten times. I hope the subtext makes sense because I think my brain melted during this process. Also I'm still fairly new to posting on tumblr so I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly :) warnings: sexual innuendos, Jason being a low key stalker

BAT CAVE

Jason stepped deeper into the cave, the heavy echo of his boots bouncing off the stone walls. The cavern smelled faintly of earth, cleaning supplies, and the ever-present sting of coffee left too long to cool—unsurprising, given the miniature landfill of empty cups piled near Tim’s workstation.

“Jesus, Tim,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim didn’t look up. His voice was flat, gravel-edged with exhaustion. “I’ll sleep when I find our ghost.”

Jason arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you said that yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Tim murmured, squinting at lines of code bleeding across the massive screen. “I’m aware.”

Jason crossed his arms, stepping closer, gaze flicking over the data. “Any updates?”

Tim let out a hard sigh, slumping back in his chair. He dragged both hands down his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration before answering. “Just dead ends. No facial matches. No fingerprints. No aliases that last longer than a day. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Really good.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Jason said quietly. “No usual runner is this off the grid.”

“Exactly. And get this—Gordon pulled a small vial off Mancini and handed it off to B.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “Mancini was right. It’s a hybrid. Joker’s original strain—but there’s chemical coding in it that matches Scarecrow’s second-gen fear compound. It’s clean work. Scarily precise. Way beyond Joker’s usual brand of chaos. Even Crane’s compounds weren’t this sophisticated.”

Jason frowned, unease tightening in his gut. “So, what are you saying? That the bastard we’re chasing didn’t just steal the formula…”

Tim looked up, expression grim. “He probably helped make it.”

The words landed with a sickening weight.

Jason exhaled, low and sharp. “Shit.”

Tim turned back to the monitor, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “And Joker’s tearing through the underworld trying to find him. That’s why it’s gone quiet—people are either hiding… or dying. Fast.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “Then we need to move. Fast. If Joker gets his hands on the formula—”

“We’ll have a city-wide crisis on our hands,” Tim finished for him.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then we need an antidote. Even if it’s just a prototype.”

Tim shook his head. “We don’t have enough of the compound. No base, no ratios, no synthesis pattern. Without the exact formula, we’d be guessing in the dark.”

Jason slammed a fist lightly against the desk. “Then how the hell did a rat like Mancini get his hands on it?”

Tim shrugged. “Best guess? He stole it from Sionis. Would explain why he was looking over his shoulder every five seconds.”

“Idiot,” Jason muttered. His anger began to cool as he glanced over, noticing the dark circles etched beneath Tim’s eyes. The kid looked wired and worn thin. His voice softened. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t,” Tim’s fingers resumed their frantic pace across the keyboard. “What if I miss something? What if that formula shows up and we’re not ready?”

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tim. You’ll miss something anyway if your brain crashes mid-keystroke. You’ve been staring at code for three days straight. You’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Tim didn’t stop typing. “It’s worked so far.”

Jason reached out pulled Tim away from the bat computer and forcing Tim to turn around and meet his eyes. “You’re not gonna outsmart this thing if you’re fried. You’ll be sharper after a break. Babs is still digging on her end. We’ve got the patrols. Get four hours. Hell, even two.”

Tim slumped in defeat, rubbing at his eyes as the tension finally bled from his shoulders. “Fine. A nap. But if I wake up and Gotham’s on fire—”

“Then it’s a normal day in this shit hole city,” Jason deadpanned.

A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips, and he stood with a stretch that earned several cracks from his spine.

“I’ll keep digging until you’re up.” Jason promised, clapping a hand to Tim’s shoulder. “Go.”

Tim didn’t argue. He staggered toward the elevator, muttering about caffeine withdrawal and setting six alarms.

Jason waited until the lift closed behind him before turning back to the monitor. He should’ve jumped straight into the search—he’d been the loudest about stopping Joker’s next move— instead, his mind drifted. Not to Gotham. Not to toxins or their ghost. But to you.

It had been days since the bookstore, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually becoming a stalker,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Seeing you at the bookstore had been pure coincidence. But now? he could feel his curiosity getting the better of him, he wanted to see you again and with that the thought there, it was too tempting to ignore the resources at his disposal. 

A quick cross-reference of the store’s invoice system, and he’d found the record of your purchase. From there, it wasn’t hard to trace it to a name. A professional profile. A series of academic papers and lecture videos.

Doctor Y/N L/N. Neuroscientist. Lecturer and researcher at Gotham U.

He skimmed your credentials, the corner of his mouth twitching. You were sharp. Accomplished. Brilliant, even. Probably the kind of person who would’ve been Tim’s rival if he ever left the cave long enough to interact with actual humans.

“Damn,” Jason whistled low, scrolling through your faculty page. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Who is this?”

Jason nearly leapt out of the chair. “Jesus, Damian!”

Damian raised a brow, unimpressed, before glancing at the glowing monitor, gaze narrowing at the screen. “Who is she?”

Jason shifted awkwardly. “She’s, uh… potential lead. On the toxin thing.” Total lie. No way in hell he was confessing to stalking his own crush to demon spawn.

Damian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He glanced back at the screen. “She doesn’t look like an evil mastermind.”

Jason snorted. “Trust me. She’s smart enough to become one if she wanted.”

He clicked out of the window, not willing to risk further questions, and turned to face the youngest Wayne fully. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I finished this week’s syllabus yesterday,” Damian said with a dismissive wave. “To make me attend that pit of idiocy is a waste of my time.”

Jason raised a brow. “Pretty sure Bruce expects you to show up regardless.”

“Father expects results, not attendance,” Damian replied coolly.

Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “If I call him right now and tell him his little prodigy’s playing hooky and creeping around the Batcave instead of sitting through trig, how fast do you think he’d be down here?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Jason said, smirking as he slowly pulled his comm from his belt. “And I’ll tell Alfred to lock up your katanas until your attendance record’s squeaky clean.”

Damian looked murderous. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re going to be late.”

With a muttered curse in Arabic, Damian spun on his heel and stormed toward the elevator like a tiny, furious emperor exiled from his marble court.

“This is why no one respects you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason just smirked. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Jason chuckled as the elevator doors closed. The cave was quiet again but this time, he left the file closed. He wasn’t risking another one of his siblings catching him mid-obsession.

But even as the lines of data loaded, he couldn’t stop the image of your smirk from flashing in his mind.

Damn it.

He was so screwed.

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The weekend had vanished in a blink—gone before you had the chance to properly catch some rest. And now it was Tuesday morning, and you were once again standing in front of your lecture hall with a marker in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—woefully undersized for the hour.

You weren’t even sure how you’d survived Monday. And Tuesday? Tuesday was dragging its feet like a teenager being forced out of bed.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe the mounting stack of papers needed to be graded. Or maybe—just maybe—it had something to do with the fact that Dick hadn’t texted since the weekend.

Aside from one polite message—Had a great time, can’t wait to see you again—there had been radio silence.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was being polite.

Maybe he decided that he wasn’t actually interested.

You bit back a sigh and turned back to the board, scrawling across the surface with just a touch more pressure than necessary. Whatever.  Who needed a man when you had a lecture hall full of sleep deprived students a terminal caffeine addiction, and a job that kept your brain so busy it barely had time to spiral?

Still… you checked your phone. Just once. Just in case.

Nothing.

Figures.

You exhaled through your nose, smoothed down your blouse, and turned back toward your students with the kind of smile worn only by women who had absolutely chosen the strong, independent path at seven in the godforsaken morning.

Because, despite everything—despite the early hours, the endless grading, and the fact that your bloodstream was 80% espresso—you loved this.

You loved teaching.

You loved the subject. The research and chaos. The spark that came when something clicked in a student’s eyes.

Teaching neuroscience was more than a paycheck; it was a passion. You just wished passion came with later start times. And a universally accepted pyjama policy.

You took a long sip of coffee, rolled your shoulders back, and turned toward your students, who were only just starting to blink the sleep from their eyes.

“Alright,” you said, clicking the projector to life. “Let’s talk about chemical warfare. And clowns.”

That earned a few raised brows of interest and handful of tired chuckles.

“True to my word,” you went on, as the screen behind you flickered to life, “we’re diving into Joker venom today. Specifically, the various known strains, their molecular architecture, and the neurological impacts they cause upon exposure.”

The first image flickered onscreen: a chart showing the original base compound. Beside it was a grainy field photo of a bright green liquid. The photo looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a GCPD evidence locker.

“This,” you said, pointing with your marker, “was the earliest recorded version—crude, volatile, and grotesquely effective. Victims experienced intense euphoria, followed by uncontrollable laughter, vivid hallucinations, progressive paralysis, and ultimately… cardiac arrest.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle in.

“But here’s where it gets interesting,” you said, clicking to the next slide. “The formula has evolved. It’s gotten cleaner. More efficient. Some of the newer strains show a disturbing level of sophistication. Less residue. More targeted dopamine flooding. In a few cases—nearly undetectable until it’s too late.”

A hand went up from the front row.

“Is there any known antidote?” the student asked.

You hesitated—just for a beat. “There are a few neutralizing agents that can be effective if administered immediately,” you said. “But a true, universal antidote? Not yet. Especially not for the more recent iterations. Most of our current strategies are reactive, not preventative.”

You paused.

“In short?” Your lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t get exposed.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

And then—

A new voice spoke up.

“Is it the toxin that kills them… or the effects it triggers first?”

You froze for half a second—not enough for anyone else to notice.

Your eyes scanned the lecture hall—and there he was. In the back row, half-slouched like the seat belonged to him. Leather jacket. Boots kicked up against the chair in front. Arms folded, expression far too smug for someone who had no damn business being here.

The last thing you’d expected was to see him here.

“Interesting point,” you replied, crisp and professional, like he was another one of your students. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “The toxin is the cause, yes—but it’s the chain reaction that actually kills. The laughter, the convulsions, the paralysis… the body shuts down before most people even realize what’s happening.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “So the damage isn’t in the delivery. It’s in what it sets off.”

You clicked to the next slide. “Exactly. The moment it hits, your body stops being yours. It rewires everything—how you feel, how you think. You can’t reason your way out of it.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that and just wanted to hear you say it. “Some people get hit harder than others, though, right?”

You arched a brow. “Depends on the target.”

“Some look fine. At first,” he said. “They act normal. But the toxin’s already working underneath.”

The look he gave you made the implication clear.

You smiled tightly. “Some strains are less effective than they look. Easy to handle if caught early.”

“Wait—” a girl near the middle row piped up, frowning. “I thought there was no cure for Joker venom?”

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flush creeping along your neck. “For the newer variants, yes. They’re more chemically advanced and difficult to reverse. But with some of the older versions—If the symptoms are identified early enough—intervention is possible.”

Jason leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But what if someone lets it run its course anyway?”

You didn’t look at him.

You just smiled for the class. “Then some people are clearly very stupid.”

A few students laughed in confusion, but no one actually picked up on the double meaning of the conversation. You turned back toward the board.

“Now then,” you said briskly, “back to the chemistry before anyone else gets the idea this is interactive.”

You didn’t even make it halfway through the next slide before his voice cut in again—calm, amused, and very much on purpose.

“So how much exposure does it take before the effects become permanent?”

You inhaled through your nose and closed your eyes for half a beat.

Some of the students nodded—taking the bait. A girl in the second row had already scribbled the question into her notes.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You turned, voice level, gaze sharper. “Depends on the dosage. And the subject. Repeated exposure can cause cumulative neurological damage, but again—some people are more susceptible than others.”

Jason stood. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked down the aisle like he had all the time in the world. Like none of this was strange or inappropriate.

“Say someone’s exposed to a small dose,” he went on, “but it happens a few times. Do they build immunity? Or will the damage be done?”

He stopped just short of the first row—just shy of your space. Close enough that your skin prickled with heat. You were painfully aware of the eyes of your students on you now.

Your jaw clenched.

“Well,” you said, eyes narrowed, “whoever’s insane enough to try that should probably check themselves into Arkham.”

He stepped closer, just slightly. Just enough that only you could hear him when he murmured, low and maddening:

“Why do that… when there’s a cure standing right here?”

“Funny,” you said, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile if not for the fire in your eyes. “Because the only thing I see right now is a recurring symptom.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat—a student, probably wondering whether they were still attending a lecture or some avant-garde performance piece. 

You exhaled sharply and stepped toward him, your expression still pleasant for the room, but your voice dropped to a hiss meant for his ears alone.

“What the hell are you doing? This is a lecture. You’re not cute.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was. Just here to learn about toxins… and their reactions.” 

You gritted your teeth. “You’re disrupting my job.”

“I’ll stop if you go out with me.”

“Not a damn chance.” You scoff.

Then, as if this was his stage now, he turned slightly toward the class, raising his voice with faux curiosity. “Actually, that reminds me. Has anyone considered how different outcomes might vary depending on emotional state during exposure? Say, for example, if someone was already—”

“I swear to God—”

“Look,” he said, still in that maddeningly calm tone as he turned back to her, “one hour. That’s all I’m asking. If it sucks, you can forget I exist.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I still say no?”

Jason shrugged, entirely too relaxed. “I’ll keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Might even bring snacks next time. We’ll see how interactive this gets.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

God, he was smug.

God, he was gorgeous.

God, you hated this.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “One hour,” you said through gritted teeth. “And if you speak once during the rest of this lecture, I will report you for harassment and ban you from this campus.”

His grin was shameless. “Understood, Professor.”

He backed up, hands raised, retreating like the smug menace he was—but this time with a victory in his step.

He turned and walked back up the aisle, dropping back into his seat like this was the plan all along.

You turned back to the board, face burning, students utterly unaware that their professor had just been emotionallystrong-armed into a date by a six-foot leather-wrapped problem with a smirk. 

Jason, to his credit, didn’t speak again. Not once.

But he didn’t need to.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Surprisingly, Jason actually found himself listening as you spoke. He learned what actually happened inside someone exposed to Joker venom—what went wrong in their brain. He’d never thought to ask before. That was always Bruce’s domain, or Tim’s. The analysis. The endless case files with chemical structures and psych profiles and margin notes scribbled in too-small handwriting. Jason had always preferred the fighting portion of vigilantism. 

But hearing it from you…

Maybe it was the way your voice shifted—calm but impassioned—or how you didn’t shy away from the brutality of it. You didn’t sensationalize it, either. You explained it like a surgeon would describe an autopsy—clinical, controlled, but with a quiet thread of empathy running through every word.

Jason had seen what Joker venom did to people.

He’d dealt the aftermath.

He’d watched the light go out in someone’s eyes while they laughed themselves into oblivion.

But he’d never truly understood it. Not like this.

The way you spoke about neurotransmitter chaos—how dopamine floods rewired fear into joy, how serotonin short-circuited pain into pleasure, how laughter wasn’t just a reaction, but a seizure disguised as euphoria. The complete collapse of inhibition, followed by motor control, then respiratory function—it was horrifying. And fascinating.

You made him want to know more.

And then, in a moment that startled him, he wondered what you’d make of him.

Of the Lazarus Pit. Of what it did to the brain when it brought someone back from the dead. Of the rage. The episodes. The memory gaps. Of the madness that still affected him.

Would you call it neurological trauma? A chemical imbalance? Would you look at him like a subject—or something broken to fix?

He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, fingers tapping idly against his knee. You were pacing now, marker in hand, drawing a new diagram with quick, practiced ease. Sharp lines, fluid motion. You were alive up there—animated and fierce in your element. And he couldn’t help but watch. Not just your words. But you.

The way your voice sharpened when a student asked a half-formed question. The gleam in your eye when someone got it. The small, unconscious smile when the pieces clicked.

You cared. Genuinely.

About the material. About the kids in this room. About what this information could mean outside of it.

“Alright,” you said finally, capping the marker with a soft snap and stepping back. “That’s it for today. You’re free to go—unless you’re dying to ask more questions about the joys of chemically induced insanity.”

Laughter stirred through the room. Chairs scraped back. A few students filtered out with lingering glances and whispered praise. Others loitered to gather notes or quietly debate the finer points of dopamine regulation.

Jason didn’t move.He waited—calm, steady—watching you sort your materials, stack your folders, and close your laptop shut.

When you finally turned toward him, arms crossing over your chest and one brow raised in challenge, he rose from his seat like a man who had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“Ready, Professor?” he asked, voice low, smug as ever.

You rolled your eyes, gathering your bag. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of my word.”

Jason smirked. “Some might say that’s an admirable quality.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Some might say it’s a flaw.”

THE GOLDEN CUP

Jason—as you’d recently learned his name was—took you to The Golden Cup, one of Gotham’s most aggressively popular coffee chains.

On the walk over, you’d checked your phone—more out of habit than hope—and found, unsurprisingly, that there was still no message from Dick.

And that was when you decided.

You weren’t going to wait up for him. You’d had one date. No promises. No exclusivity. Just a good night that clearly hadn’t meant the same thing to both of you.

So fine.

You were going to give Jason a chance.

No matter how infuriating, arrogant, or absolutely insufferable he was—he was persistent. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.

Even if he made you want to strangle him half the time.

Especially then.

You forced a polite smile as he held the door open for you. The place had a sleek, modern interior, all brushed steel and pale wood, the kind of aesthetic that screamed corporate chic. Chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with endless customizable drink options in cheery handwriting, as if sugar and soy milk could compensate for the fact that the coffee tasted like watered-down burnt beans. 

You bit back a grimace. The air buzzed with the frantic energy of sleep-deprived students and frazzled office workers. 

“The Golden Cup?” you asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.

Jason shrugged, as if the choice had been perfectly logical. “Figured this was your kind of place.”

You mirrored the gesture, masking your annoyance. After how hard he’d worked to get this hour with you, the last thing you wanted was to admit you actually despised it here. “The girls on my gymnastics team used to love this place,” you offered instead.

That made him pause. “Wait—you did gymnastics?”

You nodded. “Bars. Tumbling. The works.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over you like he was trying to reconcile that image with the one in front of him.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

You stiffened. “And what type is that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckled, the sound light but strained.

But the damage was done. The words echoed louder than they should have—because you wanted this to go well. You’d told yourself you were being open, trying not to let old scars taint something new. Like Milo kept encouraging. But there it was again—another man slotting you into a tidy box. 

Jake used to do the same thing.

“So how did you mean it?” you asked, voice calm but tight.

Jason looked like he wished he’d said nothing at all. “I just meant… never mind, okay?”

The line moved forward. He stepped up to the counter, clearly flustered, and ordered without turning to you. Two hot coffees. Black.

You stared at the back of his head in disbelief. He didn’t even ask.

When he reached for his wallet, you turned on your heel and walked out.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the Gotham air, crisp and biting against your cheeks. You exhaled hard, realizing only then how tense your jaw had become.

You didn’t make it far before the door slammed open again. Footsteps pounded after you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jason called.

You kept walking until his hand lightly caught your arm.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, met his eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Confusion flashed across his face. “What? It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“And that’s all I needed.”

He stared at you, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Ever since we met,” you said, keeping your tone level, “you’ve done nothing but make assumptions. You act as if you know me based on a glance and a guess.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “I—what assumptions?”

“The book recommendation, the coffee shop itself. You didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” you pointed out. “You just ordered hot coffee.”

“Everyone loves hot coffee!”

“I don’t.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And then there was the gymnastics thing.”

He winced. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong—”

“It’s not just that. It’s how you said it. Like I didn’t look the part. What—because I’m a doctor?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, like the idea shocked him. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

“You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t care to.” you said, stepping back. “You saw me in the bookstore and figured I looked easy. The kind of girl you could charm in five minutes with a smirk and some half-assed lines.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could try to spin it.

“I said no,” you reminded him. “So now I’m a challenge. That’s all this is to you—a game you don’t want to lose.”

His expression shifted. Defensive. 

“But let’s get one thing straight,” you continued, voice like ice. “Whatever bad boy charm you think you’ve got going for you? It doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen it before. You’re not new.”

Jason scoffed, tension bleeding into sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a suit and talked about Nietzsche.”

You shook your head, a hollow laugh escaping. “God, this is exactly why I’m walking away.”

“Oh, right,” he said, stepping forward. “Because you’re uptight and judgmental? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

You stiffened, heat rising in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was sharp now, stripped of its earlier charm. “You walked in here with your mind already made up. You want to lecture me on assumptions? Take a good look in the mirror. You’re no better, Princess.”

The words hit like a slap— For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, breathing hard, your pride wounded, your heart thudding against your ribs with something that felt too much like anger… and something else you didn’t want to name.

You were done. Whatever thread of tolerance you’d held onto had snapped clean through. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Let’s just call it a night.”

“Oh, can we?” he muttered, hands flung out to the side. “Please.”

“Good night,” you snapped, already turning.

“Sayonara.”

“Have fun with yourself.”

“Ciao, sweetheart. Tell the HOA at Pretentious Pointe I said hi.”

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[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #44

Three Teens, Three Crowns, and a Whole Lot of Nope

Imagine dis…

I was just shuffling around my playlist when I heard that song from the animated movie El Dorado and it made me thinking, so here it goes…

…

DANNY’S POV

The moment my best friends bit the ghostly dust, the universe decided to hand us a set of crowns we didn’t ask for. Because obviously, nothing says “Congratulations on your tragic deaths!” like a full-time job in the afterlife.

Tucker, in a plot twist no one saw coming (except maybe Clockwork, because that guy cheats), turned out to be the reincarnation of some ancient Pharaoh. Not just any Pharaoh—oh no—he got the VIP pass straight to the top of the Egyptian pantheon, answering only to me, the so-called King of the Infinite Realms. Because if there's one thing I’ve learned, it's that my best friend is destined to be the world's first tech-savvy, WiFi-dependent god-king of the afterlife.

Sam, on the other hand, had always been a little too into nature, and I guess the universe finally decided to roll with it. When she synced up perfectly with Undergrowth’s power, the big walking salad declared her his heir, making her the literal Queen of Nature. So now, Sam basically has dominion over every plant in existence, which means I can never make an offhand comment about preferring artificial Christmas trees without getting a death glare.

And me? Well, since I yeeted Pariah Dark back into the sarcophagus where he belonged, the Infinite Realms figured I should be the one running the place. So, lucky me—I got promoted to Ghost King, a position that comes with all the responsibility and none of the training manual.

Now, you’d think that’s enough responsibility for a trio of teenagers who just wanted to survive high school. But no, Clockwork took one look at us, decided we sucked at ruling, and thought, Hey, let’s make this fun! So instead of, I don’t know, giving us an actual lesson in leadership, he chucked us into a completely different dimension (because, sure, why not?) and told us to start cults.

Yep. You heard that right. Cults.

No warning, no instructions, just a “figure it out” and a push into the deep end. One minute we’re in the Ghost Zone, the next we’re scattered across this weird universe like a really weird cosmic prank.

So now I’m stuck in Gotham, which, by the way, might be more haunted than the Ghost Zone itself. I have no idea where Sam and Tucker ended up, but if I know them, Tucker’s probably convinced a bunch of tech bros to worship him as some cyber-god, and Sam’s singlehandedly turning a park into her new throne. Meanwhile, I have to somehow convince people to follow me without sounding like a lunatic.

This is going to be fun. (Spoiler: It won’t be.)

…

SAM’S POV

Gotham reeked of smoke, oil, and decay. Beneath its gothic beauty was a suffocating lifelessness, an unnatural cage of steel and concrete. The city was a graveyard where nature had been paved over and left to rot in the shadows of towering skyscrapers. It was unacceptable. It was offensive. And Sam was going to change it.

She wasted no time. The moment her feet hit Gotham’s cracked pavement, she started planting seeds—both literally and metaphorically. It began with whispers. A small movement. A group that promised something different. Gotham had no shortage of lost souls—criminals, outcasts, the downtrodden looking for something beyond the city's endless cycle of crime and punishment. But Sam wasn’t offering power or chaos like every other Gotham lunatic. No, she offered something much rarer: sustainability.

Food. Shelter. Community.

It started with fresh produce, rare and valuable in Gotham’s urban wasteland. No one questioned where it came from, only that it was fresh, free of toxins, and worth more than a stack of stolen cash. The deal was simple—manual labor in exchange for nourishment. Gotham’s criminals, many of whom spent their lives getting stabbed, shot, or beaten in some turf war, found the idea shockingly reasonable. Hospitals ate through their earnings. Gang life was profitable until you bled out in an alley. But a place that provided food, healing, and protection? That was something different. That was better.

The movement grew. What began as a handful of desperate people looking for a way out became something bigger. The streets whispered of a new force rising, one that didn’t deal in violence or corruption but in roots—roots that burrowed deep, that refused to be ignored.

At first, the Batfamily dismissed it as background noise. In a city filled with psychopaths dressed as clowns, what was a little nature cult? But when Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn vanished—not in a grand escape, not in a fiery explosion, but simply faded into the movement—their indifference turned to concern.

When Ivy resurfaced, she wasn’t the same. The wild unpredictability had been tempered into something focused. Controlled. She still worshipped nature, but now she had a leader, someone she called High Priestess. And that leader wasn’t some ancient force of the Green. It wasn’t a metahuman, a scientist, or a villain. It was a teenager.

A black-haired, violet-eyed girl who stood in front of kneeling followers, leading ceremonies beneath the growing canopy of Gotham’s first true forest in centuries.

Sam had never been one for blind worship. She despised mindless devotion. But this wasn’t about faith—it was about purpose. The people who followed her weren’t zealots; they were survivors. They had seen what Gotham’s endless cycle of crime and violence had to offer, and they wanted out. She gave them that. She gave them a cause. And if it meant being called a cult leader, then fine. Whatever. Labels didn’t matter. Results did.

And Gotham was changing.

The city fought back, of course. The corruption, the crime families, even the Bat himself—none of them liked an unpredictable element in their precious, miserable ecosystem. But Sam had never been one to back down. Gotham was sick, diseased, rotting. She wasn’t here to burn it down like some power-hungry villain. She was here to fix it.

And if the Bats wanted to stop her, well—

Let them try.

…

TUCKER’S POV

Metropolis was beautiful. It was clean, it was bright, and it was bursting with technology. Skyscrapers gleamed under the sun, state-of-the-art AI patrolled the streets, and futuristic inventions were integrated into everyday life like it was no big deal. This was a city that worshiped innovation, where science and technology weren’t just tools but pillars of society.

Tucker should have been in heaven.

But he had a mission to complete before he could sit back and enjoy the wonders of Metropolis. Clockwork’s orders. And if the old ghost had taught him anything, it was that ignoring his cryptic guidance usually led to bad things. So, no indulging in the city’s top-tier tech just yet. He had a kingdom to build.

At first, Superman didn’t even notice him. That was fine. Tucker wasn’t looking to pick a fight with the world’s strongest hero. He moved in the background, setting up encrypted networks, hijacking digital footprints, and planting just enough static in the city’s airwaves to keep any unwanted super-snooping off his back. The occasional glitch in Superman’s super-hearing? That was Tucker, laying the groundwork.

But the real disruption came when people started vanishing.

Not just any people—tech specialists, programmers, engineers. The kind of minds corporations fought over, the ones Luthor’s company owned through shady contracts and blackmail. One by one, they disappeared from Metropolis, slipping through the cracks like digital ghosts.

The city was no stranger to missing persons. Metropolis saw its fair share of people vanishing into the underbelly of crime, alien invasions, or one of Lex Luthor’s ever-growing list of sinister schemes. But this? This was too precise, too targeted. Luthor’s R&D departments were bleeding talent at an alarming rate, and the usual suspects weren’t responsible.

The only common thread? The Code of Ra.

It started as an urban myth—a secretive group offering sanctuary to tech minds who had seen too many of their peers exploited, coerced, or “recruited” by the so-called forces of good and evil. They were promised a place where their work was valued, where they were free to create without fear of it being stolen, weaponized, or locked behind corporate greed.

And at the center of it all? Him.

Tucker hadn’t just built a cult—he’d built a kingdom. One where technology wasn’t a tool for war, where engineers and programmers weren’t disposable assets, where knowledge was sacred. He offered an intellectual utopia, a society where the greatest minds could work without limits. And the best part? They wanted to be there. There was no brainwashing, no coercion. The world had burned them too many times, and Tucker had simply given them an alternative.

And, okay, maybe he leaned into the whole Pharaoh thing a little. He was a reincarnated ruler, after all—might as well own it. Gold-trimmed robes, sleek futuristic stylings with ancient Egyptian aesthetics, and a throne room that looked like a cyberpunk temple. He’d always thought he’d look good in royal attire, and damn, was he right.

But his people didn’t follow him because of the theatrics. They followed because he gave them something no one else had—freedom.

Superman, unaccustomed to dealing with cults, found himself in unfamiliar territory. He had fought tyrants, warlords, and intergalactic conquerors, but a movement built on voluntary devotion? That wasn’t as simple as punching a bad guy. Normally, this was the kind of mess Batman or Wonder Woman would handle. But Diana was off-world, and Gotham had its own cult problem. That left the burden squarely on Superman’s shoulders.

And Tucker? Tucker was more than ready to enjoy the show.

…

DANNY’S POV

The desert sucked.

Like, really sucked.

If he ever made it out of this, he was going to personally petition the Ghost Zone to just delete the concept of sand from existence. Sand was evil. It got everywhere, it was hot, and it made him feel like a melting popsicle under a blowtorch.

His ice core hated him. His human half hated him. The sun was having the time of its life roasting him alive. And then—nothing.

When he woke up, things got weirder.

For one, he wasn’t dead. Which, honestly, was a pleasant surprise considering the whole “heatstroke and possible dehydration” situation. For another, he wasn’t lying in the sand anymore. Nope. Instead, he was inside a coffin.

Not the first time he’d woken up in one, but still, rude.

He sat up, blinking blearily, and was immediately met with dozens of kneeling figures in dark robes. No one screamed. No one attacked. They just...stared.

Which, honestly? Way creepier than ghost attacks.

The air smelled like flowers, incense, and something ancient, like he’d been dropped in the middle of an old temple. Around him were offerings—literal offerings—of gold, silver, and silk. And the people? They were whispering. Murmuring things he barely understood, eyes shining with what he could only describe as religious awe.

Which was never a good sign.

Danny had questions. A lot of questions. But the big one?

What the actual heck was going on?

It took some time—aka him sneaking around, eavesdropping, and pretending he had any idea what he was doing—but eventually, he figured it out.

These people? Every single one of them had died before. Not in the casual, “oops, tripped and fell” way, but in the full-on, flatline, bright light at the end of the tunnel way. And somehow, they’d come back. Some were resurrected, others survived things they shouldn’t have, but they all had one thing in common: they felt drawn to him.

Apparently, he was some kind of cosmic beacon for people who’d taken a one-way trip to the afterlife but forgot to stay there. To them, he wasn’t just some random ghost kid—he was the King. The embodiment of balance, life and death, chaos and order. The guy who got to decide whether people stayed dead.

And that was so not on his resume.

But did that stop people from kneeling at his feet, swearing loyalty, and building a cult around him? Nope.

Did he ask for it? Also nope.

And somehow, it just kept getting bigger. At first, it was just the devoted ghost-adjacent weirdos. Then mercenaries. Then, a group of assassins and a guy named Ra. Even Slade freaking Wilson showed up one day, standing ominously at the back like the world’s most intense chaperone.

Danny didn’t do cults. He wasn’t qualified for cults. He was barely qualified for high school.

But Clockwork had said he needed to establish one, and, well...mission accomplished?

Now, all he had to do was find Sam and Tucker, reunite with his spouses, and figure out how to explain to them that, uh...he might have accidentally become a god-king of the undead.

Yeah. They were never gonna let him live this down.

…

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: I tried a new type of writing. How is it?

[prettyshittywriting]

"He hit me and it felt like a kiss"

Caitlyn Kiramman x fem reader (angst)

somewhat TOXIC RELATIONSHIP (idk)

like 2k words almost PART1

PART2 ⬇️⬇️

You and Caitlyn had been together for years. You met at school, falling for her sharp wit and soft heart, and she fell just as hard for you.

For years, she had been the perfect girlfriend—always caring, always spoiling you, always making you feel like the luckiest person on earth.

You had even started talking about marriage. Life felt almost too good to be true.

Until Cassandra Kiramman died.

The end of your relationship wasn’t instant. It came in fragments, slow and agonizing.

It started with Caitlyn spending less time with you—caught up in funeral preparations, looking after her father, trying to fill the impossible void her mother left behind. She came home later than usual and left earlier each morning.

You tried to understand. She had just lost her mother. She was overwhelmed, exhausted, and grieving. You wanted to be there for her.

But no matter how much you reached for her, she kept slipping away.

The nights spent together became scarce. When she did come home, she crashed almost immediately, too tired to talk. The rare moments you got to voice your concerns were met with half-hearted promises—"I’ll take a break soon." she would say, only to be gone again the next morning.

Then she started meeting with Ambessa Medarda.

How you hated that woman.

You could see what she was doing—twisting Caitlyn’s grief into something cold, something dangerous. You tried to warn Caitlyn, tried to tell her that Ambessa was using her, manipulating her into being the perfect soldier.

But Caitlyn defended her. She defended all of it.

Then came the late-night training sessions. The sleepless nights. The plan to gas the Undercity.

One Week Ago

Caitlyn’s study was dimly lit. Blueprints and maps of the Undercity were all across her desk, marked with red ink. X’s and circles outlined her grim plan.

But your eyes were drawn to the vials.

Shimmering green liquid, neatly lined in a wooden case. The Green. A new variant of shimmer. A deadly toxin.

Your stomach twisted.

Caitlyn wanted to use this.

On them.

Your throat was dry as you finally found the strength to speak. "Caitlyn please tell me this isn’t what I think it is."

Across the room, Caitlyn turned to you, her blue eyes dark with exhaustion.

She looked so different from the woman you once knew—the woman you love.

Her posture was stiff, her shoulders squared, like she had already decided she would not be swayed.

"I’m going to do what Piltover should have done years ago." she said. "The Undercity is a breeding ground for filth, for criminals. We let it fester for too long, and now look at what it’s cost us."

You stepped closer, anger bubbling under your skin. "No." you snapped. "You’re not going to act like this is justice. This is revenge, Caitlyn. This is genocide."

Her jaw tensed. "Jinx killed my mother."

Her voice wavered—just slightly—just enough for you to hear the raw wound beneath her fury.

You knew what Jinx had taken from her. You knew how much Caitlyn had loved her mother.

But Caitlyn was looking at the entire Undercity like they all had blood on their hands. Like they all fired the shot that killed Cassandra Kiramman.

"I know she did." you said, voice softer now. "And it was horrible. But punishing an entire city for one person’s crime? Tell me you know that’s not right."

Caitlyn’s expression darkened. "Do I?"

A chill ran through you.

"Every day I spent in the Enforcers, I saw how we tried to fix that place. And every day, they spat in our faces. We gave them mercy, and they took it as weakness. We offered them a future, and they burned it to the ground."

You shook your head. "No. You didn’t ‘offer’ them anything, Cait. Piltover kept them down, kept them desperate. And when people are desperate, they do things they shouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean they deserve to die!"

"You’re too naive." Caitlyn scoffed bitterly. "You think they’re innocent? The same people who build Jinx’s bombs? Who sell shimmer? Who kill Enforcers in the street—"

"Not all of them!" you cried, voice breaking. "There are children down there, Cait. Families. People who just want to survive. Are you seriously telling me they all deserve to die?"

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Doubt? Pain? You weren’t sure.

"She’s down there." Caitlyn said, voice tight. "Jinx is down there. And I will find her."

"Then find her." You stepped forward, gripping the edge of her desk. "Find her. Bring her to justice—hell, kill her if you have to. But don’t take innocent lives with her, Caitlyn. Please."

Silence.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched.

"I have to do this."

A lump formed in your throat. "If you do this," you whispered, "I don’t know if I can stand beside you anymore."

Caitlyn inhaled sharply.

And then, without looking at you—"Then go."

Your heart stopped.

Tears burned in your eyes as you turned and left.

And Caitlyn Kiramman was alone in the dark.

Now

She did it.

She gassed the Undercity.

And every night since, she had sent you messages.

Begging you to come home. To talk. To forgive her.

You hated to admit it, but you missed her. The warmth of her arms. The way she smelled. Even the way she would put her cold-ass legs on you in bed just to hear you complain.

So you finally went home.

You didn’t text ahead. It was your home too.

You stepped inside, heart pounding. She wasn’t in the living room, so you headed for the bedroom—

And froze.

There she was. In bed. With Vi.

They hadn’t noticed you yet.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you practically screamed.

Both of them jolted upright. Caitlyn’s face paled.

"Oh, sweetheart, we were just talking about business in the Undercity—"

"Talking about business with Vi in our bed?"

The way she froze told you everything.

Your heart shattered. Your breath came in ragged gasps. "Did you sleep with her?"

Caitlyn looked away.

"Oh my god." Your voice cracked. "You actually did it."

"I made a mistake—"

"A mistake?" You let out a bitter laugh. "You don’t get to call it that. This was a choice."

Caitlyn reached for you. "Please—"

You stepped back. "Don’t."

Her voice cracked. "I can’t lose you."

Tears blurred your vision. "You already did."

And with that, you walked out.

This time, she didn’t chase you.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

bro idek I feel like this started completely different and ended on a whole different note anyway enjoy ig

anyway I am feigning for any Caitlyn Kiramman content. god I love her so fucking much. she's so majestic. I wanna see her evil. I think it's cuz I expected her to be like the devil in s2 but honestly she was way 2 chill. like I was ready to defend her w my life but I barely had 2 cuz she was barely evil.

bro I've been like 2 happy recently so I needed angst to push me down a peg or 2

pls leave mfing requests or you will keep receiving this half assed bullshit cuz j got no mfing ideas!!😡

pls I need something 2 do I will literally write anyone atp! (not children or animals don't be weird)

[sleepberries]

For your spideyhood fics, if it interestes you any, I'd like to request some instances where Jason kills people/targets. See him enforce his rules and get his hands bloodied. I miss it. he is passionate about his goals and id really like to see him stick to his principles despite what everyone Wants him to do. If not killing then AT LEAST heavily torturing his target? maybe peter seeing him in his element and getting a reality check of what it means to really be dating the full, unfiltered jason todd? make it known he IS dating a very meticulous killer. OH or, have peter comparing jason to wade in how they execute their plans/targets? idk i just really miss jason getting things done His way, no compromising on his part. free him of these no kill rule and rubber bullet shackles ! unmuzzle my baby girl !!

okay this was actually great timing because a few days ago i finished the first draft of one of the prequels that is opening the discussion of just that !! it's important to note that while it hasn't really need shown yet, jason absolutely still is using lethal force. it's what he does!! and peter and him are absolutely butting heads over it. now, this ficlet doesn't have a name yet and i don't really have plans to post it for a while, but here you go !!

If there was one thing Peter Parker knew for absolute certain, it was that nothing good ever happened on a Tuesday.

Mondays were expected tragedies. Wednesdays marked the halfway point. Thursdays held promise. Fridays brought relief. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays were chaos incarnate—like the universe took all its leftover bad ideas and dumped them right in the middle of an otherwise perfectly fine week.

Case in point: the Red Hood was back in his city.

Peter spotted him immediately, a red-helmeted shadow skulking along a warehouse rooftop in the industrial district. It had been three weeks since their first encounter—since the mysterious vigilante had hauled that flickering wizard guy back to wherever murdery vigilantes took their prisoners. Peter had assumed that was the end of their brief, bizarre interaction.

Yet here he was again, lurking around Peter's turf like he owned the place.

"Well, well, well," Peter called out, landing with practiced grace on the edge of the roof. "If it isn't Gotham's favorite trigger-happy tourist."

Red Hood didn't startle. He merely turned his head, the expressionless helmet gleaming dully in the moonlight. "Spider-Man. Just the pest I was hoping to avoid."

"Aw, you remembered me!" Peter pressed a hand to his chest. "I'm touched. Really."

"Touch this," Hood growled, flipping him off before returning to what appeared to be surveillance of the warehouse across the street.

Peter rolled his eyes beneath his mask and approached, crouching down beside the leather-jacketed vigilante. "So what brings you back to the Big Apple? Miss my charming personality? The authentic pizza? Or did you just get lost on your way to Jersey's finest trash heap again?"

Red Hood remained focused on the warehouse. "I'm working."

"Ooh, cryptic. Love that for you." Peter leaned over, trying to see what had captured the other vigilante's attention so completely. "What kind of 'work' are we talking about? Because if it involves making people dead, I'm gonna have to firmly vote no on that."

Hood exhaled slowly, the sound distorted through his helmet. "How are you still alive when you're this annoying?"

"Superior reflexes, amazing good looks, and sheer force of will," Peter replied without missing a beat. "Now seriously, what's going on?"

For a moment, Peter thought Hood might actually shoot him just to shut him up. Instead, the vigilante reached into his jacket and pulled out a small device, projecting a holographic display of shipping manifestos.

"Someone's moving Scarecrow toxin through your city," he said finally. "Thought you might want to know before half of Manhattan starts hallucinating their worst fears."

Peter's humor evaporated instantly. "Scarecrow? As in the Gotham nutjob who makes people see nightmare fuel?"

"The same."

"How much toxin are we talking?"

"Enough to cover a ten-block radius," Hood replied, flicking through the manifesto. "They're moving it tonight. Splitting the shipment into three parts. This—" he gestured to the warehouse they were watching, "—is where they're dividing it up."

Peter studied the warehouse with newfound intensity. "Why would anyone bring that stuff here?"

"Money," Hood said simply. "Some rich asshole thinks it'll make a great party drug—the ultimate 'bad trip' for trust fund kids with too much cash and too little sense."

"That's..." Peter struggled to find words. "That's monumentally stupid."

"Welcome to humanity."

Peter's spider-sense buzzed faintly at the base of his skull—not immediate danger, but a warning of trouble ahead. He narrowed his eyes at Hood. "How do you know all this?"

The helmeted vigilante's posture shifted slightly. "I have my sources."

"Uh-huh. And you just happened to be passing through New York again?"

"Look, Spandex," Hood snapped, turning to face him fully. "I tracked these bastards from Gotham. They killed three people getting this stuff out. I don't give a rat's ass if you believe me or not, but that warehouse is about to receive enough fear toxin to turn this neighborhood into a horror show."

Peter held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I believe you."

Hood stared at him for a beat longer before returning to his surveillance. Peter watched him, mind racing. If what Hood was saying was true—and his spider-sense suggested it was—they had a serious problem on their hands.

"What's the plan?" Peter asked finally.

Hood glanced at him. "We?"

"Uh, yeah, we," Peter gestured between them. "This is my city, remember? I'm not letting you run around shooting people, no matter how bad they are."

The vigilante made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Cute. You think you can stop me."

"I know I can," Peter said, his voice dropping its usual playfulness. "The question is whether we work together efficiently or waste time fighting each other while dangerous chemicals get distributed through my city."

Red Hood went silent, considering. Finally, he put away the holographic device. "Fine. Here's how this goes. We wait until the shipment arrives. They'll bring it in, split it three ways. Once we confirm the toxin is there, we move in, neutralize the threat, and secure the shipment."

"When you say 'neutralize the threat'..." Peter began.

"I mean take down the criminals," Hood cut him off. "Christ, you think I'm going to execute people in front of you?"

"I genuinely have no idea what you're willing to do," Peter replied honestly. "That's kind of the issue here."

Hood tilted his helmet in what Peter imagined was an eye roll. "Just follow my lead and try not to get in my way."

"Counterproposal," Peter said brightly. "We follow my lead, since this is my city, and nobody dies. Crazy concept, I know."

"Here's a crazy concept for you—"

Hood's retort was cut short as a convoy of three unmarked vans pulled up to the warehouse. Men in dark clothing began unloading large metal crates.

"That's our cue," Hood muttered, reaching for his guns.

Peter quickly shot a web, stopping Hood's hand. "Whoa, hold up. We need a proper plan."

Hood yanked his hand free. "The plan is stop the bad guys, secure the toxin."

"Yeah, but like, with more steps and fewer bullets," Peter insisted. "These aren't just regular crooks—they're handling Scarecrow toxin. One broken container and everyone nearby is having the worst trip of their lives, us included."

Hood paused, then gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. What do you suggest?"

"I'll take high ground, web up the exits to prevent escape. You cover the main floor but—" Peter fixed him with what he hoped was a stern look despite his mask, "—non-lethal takedowns only. Deal?"

Hood stared at him for a long moment. "If this goes sideways because I couldn't use necessary force, it's on you."

"I can live with that. Can't say the same for your potential victims."

Without waiting for a response, Peter shot a web and swung toward the warehouse, positioning himself above a skylight. From here, he could see men opening the crates, revealing smaller metal containers inside. One of the men lifted a vial of sickly yellow liquid, examining it before carefully placing it in a specialized transport case.

Peter's earpiece crackled as Hood's voice came through. "I count twelve hostiles. Three armed with automatic weapons, the rest have handguns."

"When did you—" Peter touched his ear in surprise.

"Slipped a comm link onto your suit while you were busy being righteous," Hood replied. "You're welcome."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Twelve guys with guns handling extremely dangerous chemicals. What could possibly go wrong?"

"On my mark," Hood said, ignoring his sarcasm. "Three... two... one..."

Peter crashed through the skylight, glass shattering around him as he descended. In the same moment, Hood burst through a side door, guns drawn but—true to their agreement—firing what appeared to be rubber bullets.

"It's Spider-Man!" someone shouted.

"And the Red Hood!" another yelled, panic evident in his voice.

"Package deal, fellas!" Peter quipped, webbing two gunmen to the wall before they could aim. "Buy one vigilante, get another free!"

Hood moved with brutal efficiency, putting a bullet through the head of the first gunman who raised his weapon. The man crumpled instantly, dead before he hit the floor. Two more criminals charged him, and Hood dispatched them with methodical precision—one shot to the chest, another to the throat. Blood splattered across the concrete as they fell.

"What the hell?!" Peter shouted, momentarily frozen in horror.

"Holy shit, stop!" Peter called out, webbing frantically to incapacitate the remaining gunmen before Hood could execute them too. "The toxin containers!"

He swung low, kicking the legs out from under a bulky man raising his weapon toward Hood's back. The vigilante nodded in acknowledgment before drawing a knife and slashing it across the fallen attacker's throat in one fluid motion. Blood pooled beneath the dying man as Hood moved on without hesitation.

"Behind you!" Hood barked suddenly.

Peter's spider-sense flared as he twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding a knife that would have slashed across his ribs. He webbed the attacker's face, blinding him, then connected with a solid punch that sent the man sprawling.

The fight was chaotic but controlled. Peter had to admit—grudgingly—that Hood knew what he was doing. His movements were precise, economical, lacking the flashy acrobatics Peter favored but no less effective.

Six men were down. Then eight. Then ten.

Just as victory seemed certain, one of the remaining gunmen made a desperate play. He grabbed a vial of toxin from an open case.

"Stay back!" he shouted, holding the vial threateningly. "One more step and I break this! We'll all get a lungful!"

Peter froze. Hood stopped advancing.

"Smart choice," the man sneered, backing toward an exit. His partner used the distraction to edge toward another door.

"Buddy, I don't think you understand what you're holding," Peter said carefully. "That's not just some drug. That's military-grade nightmare juice."

"Shut up!" the man shouted, his hand trembling dangerously around the vial.

Peter saw Hood's posture shift subtly, his hand inching toward a different pouch on his belt.

"Let me handle this," Peter said quickly, both to Hood and the gunman. "Nobody else needs to get hurt."

The man laughed, high and panicky. "You think I'm stupid? The second I put this down, I'm done for!"

"True," Hood said suddenly, his electronically distorted voice eerily calm. "You're done either way."

Before Peter could react, Hood had drawn and fired in one fluid motion. The bullet pierced the man's shoulder, causing him to stumble backward in pain. As he fell, Hood fired again, this time straight through his heart. The man was dead before he hit the ground, his hand releasing the vial as he collapsed.

"No!" Peter shouted, lunging forward.

The vial slipped from his fingers.

Time seemed to slow as Peter lunged forward, shooting a web to catch the falling container. His webbing wrapped around it just inches from the floor, suspending it in a cocoon of synthetic silk.

"Jesus Christ," Peter breathed, heart hammering against his ribs.

"Problem solved," Hood said, stalking over to kick away the fallen gunman's weapon before the man could recover.

Peter carefully retrieved the webbed vial, securing it back in its container. "You call that solved? You nearly caused exactly what we were trying to prevent!"

"I had it under control," Hood replied dismissively.

"Like hell you did!" Peter snapped. "Another inch and we'd all be tripping balls right now!"

Hood turned to the last remaining criminal, who had frozen in place during the commotion. The man immediately raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't shoot! Please!"

Hood advanced slowly. "Where were you taking the shipments?"

"I—I don't know the final destinations," the man stammered. "We were just paid to split it up and hand it off!"

"Not good enough," Hood growled. Without hesitation, he shot the man in the knee. The criminal screamed, collapsing to the ground.

Hood knelt beside him, pressing the hot barrel of his gun against the man's temple. "Let's try again. Where were the shipments going?"

"Jesus, stop!" the man sobbed. "There's a club in Manhattan! Blue Velvet! The owner's the distributor!"

Hood nodded, then pressed the gun harder. "Who's your supplier? Who got it out of Gotham?"

"Penguin's crew! It was Penguin's crew! Please!"

Hood considered this information, then stood up. Before Peter could react, he fired a single shot through the man's head.

"STOP!" Peter yelled, webbing Hood's arm and yanking it violently. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Hood whirled on him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Stopping you from crossing a line," Peter said firmly. "We got what we came for. The toxin is secure, the bad guys are down. It's over."

"It's not over until I get answers!" Hood snarled, wiping blood from his leather jacket. "You think this is the only shipment? You think these are the only guys involved? Wake up, Spider-Man!"

"You just executed them all in cold blood!" Peter's voice shook with rage and disbelief. "You didn't even hesitate!"

"That's how this works," Hood said coldly. "They knew what they signed up for. Trafficking fear toxin means they were ready to torture thousands of innocent people for profit."

"That doesn't give you the right to be judge, jury, and executioner!" Peter shouted. "We have a justice system for a reason!"

"A system that fails every single day," Hood countered, his voice dripping with contempt. "While you web them up and the cops process them, lawyers get them out, judges let them walk, and they're back on the street doing the same shit before the blood dries. I stop the cycle permanently."

Peter stared at the carnage around them—seven bodies, blood pooling on concrete. "This isn't justice. It's slaughter."

"It's necessary," Hood replied without remorse. "Get out of my way. I need to hit that club before they realize something's wrong here."

"No."

The tension between them stretched taut, a rubber band about to snap. Peter's spider-sense hummed steadily, warning him of the impending confrontation.

Hood moved first, feinting left before driving a right hook toward Peter's jaw. Even with his enhanced reflexes, Peter barely avoided the blow—Hood was fast, far faster than he had any right to be.

Peter flipped backward, creating distance. "You really want to do this now?"

"You started it," Hood replied, closing the gap with a flurry of strikes that Peter blocked or dodged.

Peter recognized military training in Hood's movements—disciplined, precise, unlike the brawlers he usually dealt with. He returned the assault with his own style—agile, unpredictable, enhanced by his spider-sense and superhuman strength.

They were evenly matched in ways that surprised Peter. For every blow Hood landed, Peter connected with one of his own. For every trick Peter employed, Hood had a counter.

"You're—pretty good—for a walking traffic light," Peter grunted, narrowly avoiding a kick aimed at his midsection.

"And you're—not completely useless—for a circus reject," Hood returned, ducking under Peter's roundhouse.

They clashed again, Hood's armored forearm meeting Peter's web-reinforced block with a solid thunk. They broke apart, circling each other warily.

Around them, webbed and injured criminals watched in confusion as their captors battled each other.

"This is stupid," Peter said finally, breathing hard. "We're on the same side."

"Are we?" Hood challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're protecting criminals."

"I'm preventing murder," Peter corrected. "There's a difference."

Hood gestured sharply at the containers of toxin. "You know what that stuff does? It doesn't just scare people. It breaks them. Pushes their brains past what they can handle. People claw their own eyes out. Jump from buildings. Kill their loved ones because they see monsters instead of family."

His voice had taken on a raw quality that penetrated even the electronic distortion of his helmet. "I've seen it firsthand. These bastards were willing to spread that for profit. They don't deserve your protection."

Peter lowered his guard slightly. "It's not about what they deserve. It's about who we are. What we stand for."

"Save the sermon," Hood snapped, but some of the fight had gone out of him. "Some problems can't be solved by webbing them to a lamp post and calling the cops."

"Maybe not," Peter admitted. "But if we start playing judge, jury, and executioner, how are we any different from the bad guys?"

Hood stared at him for a long moment, then holstered his gun with a muttered curse. "You're exhausting, you know that?"

Peter grinned beneath his mask. "It's part of my charm."

Before Hood could respond, the sound of sirens pierced the night air. Someone had called the police—probably a neighbor alarmed by the gunfire.

Hood tensed. "That's my cue to leave."

"Wait," Peter said quickly. "The toxin—we need to contain it properly."

Hood considered this, then nodded. "I've got specialized containment units in my bike. Can neutralize the compound if anything leaks."

"Great. I'll round up our new friends here while you get the gear." Peter gestured to the criminals, some moaning in pain, others silently watching their exchange. "Try not to shoot anyone on the way, okay?"

"No promises," Hood muttered, but there was less hostility in his tone now.

As Hood headed for the exit, Peter called after him: "Hey, Red!"

The vigilante paused, glancing back.

"Thanks. For the heads-up about the toxin. You didn't have to come all this way."

Hood seemed to consider his words carefully before responding. "Next time, I'll send a postcard."

Peter laughed. "Next time, maybe just call ahead. I know a great pizza place."

"I'll pass."

"Your loss," Peter shrugged. "Best slice in New York."

Hood hesitated at the door, then said, "Jersey pizza is better," before disappearing into the night.

Peter stared after him, then shook his head with a grin. "Delusional and murdery. What a combination."

After their fight ended in a stalemate, Hood had disappeared into the night with his intel on the club. Peter had spent the next hour securing the toxin in the specialized containment units Hood had left behind. He webbed up the two surviving criminals—the only ones he'd managed to protect from Hood's lethal efficiency.

When the police arrived, Peter was gone too, leaving only a note explaining about the Scarecrow toxin and the connection to Blue Velvet club. He deliberately omitted mentioning the Red Hood. The officers would find enough carnage without his explanation.

As Peter swung home later that night, his mind replayed the violence he'd witnessed. The Red Hood wasn't just dangerous or unpredictable—he was a killer, methodical and unrepentant. The vigilante executed his targets with a calculated precision that reminded Peter uncomfortably of stories he'd heard about the Punisher.

But unlike Deadpool's chaotic, almost playful approach to violence or Punisher's grim, militaristic execution, Hood killed with a cold efficiency that spoke of training and conviction. He didn't seem to enjoy the killing—he simply deemed it necessary.

And that, somehow, disturbed Peter even more.

"He really believes he's doing the right thing," Peter muttered, landing on a rooftop to catch his breath. The weight of that realization settled heavily on his shoulders.

Though Peter had tried to stop him, Hood had walked away with information about the club. Which meant more people would likely die tonight. Peter couldn't shake the blood from his conscience, even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself.

His phone buzzed in his hidden pocket—probably Aunt May wondering why he wasn't home yet. As he reached for it, Peter noticed something stuck to his suit: a small tracking device, no bigger than a button.

He plucked it off, examining it with a mixture of distaste and reluctant fascination.

"Really, Hood?" he muttered.

Next to the tracker was a folded note, tucked securely into his suit. Peter opened it cautiously.

In sharp, angular handwriting: "Blue Velvet taken care of. Owner won't distribute toxin or anything else again. Six more dead, all guilty. Don't interfere next time. Thanks for the save with the vial. — RH"

Peter crushed the tracker between his fingers, letting the pieces scatter in the wind. Then he shot a web and continued on his way home, making a mental note to scan his suit more thoroughly next time.

Because there would definitely be a next time. He was sure of it.

Tuesday strikes again.

[battinscnz]

𝑺𝑪𝑨𝑹 𝑻𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑼𝑬 // 𝑺𝑼𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑻 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Bruce Wayne (The Batman) , Clark Kent (Superman)

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent, SuperBat

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 48,502 (15/15)

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Bruce Wayne (The Batman) , Clark Kent (Superman), SuperBat, Bruce/Clark, Pattinson!Batman, Hoechlin!Superman, Older!Clark Kent, Younger!Bruce Wayne,

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Violence/Crime Mentions, Dark Themes, Substance Use, Psychological Distress, Grief/Parental Loss, Smut,

This story contains mature themes, including violence, mental health struggles, and explicit content. Reader discretion is advised.

𝑺𝑪𝑨𝑹 𝑻𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑼𝑬 // 𝑺𝑼𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑻 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀

The glow of the computer screen bathed Clark’s face in cold light, his reflection barely visible in the black edges of the monitor. 

His fingers hovered over the keys, motionless, his thoughts tangled somewhere between Gotham’s rotting streets and the man he had left standing in the ruins of Wayne Manor. Around him, the newsroom was alive in its usual frantic energy—phones ringing, reporters talking over each other, the occasional burst of laughter from a conversation Clark wasn’t tuned into. The air smelled of stale coffee and ink, the heartbeat of the Daily Planet steady and constant, pushing forward like it always did.

But Clark wasn’t here .

Not really.

His mind was still in Gotham, buried beneath the weight of its shadows. 

No matter how much he tried to shake it, no matter how much he told himself this wasn’t his fight, he couldn’t stop seeing Bruce Wayne. Couldn’t stop hearing his voice, rough and exhausted, telling him that this was all a mistake, that Clark had no business being there, that he should just go . Couldn’t forget the way his ribs were bruised, how he moved with an ache that ran deeper than bone, how his house—if you could even call it that anymore—was nothing but a skeleton, a carcass left to rot with the rest of Gotham’s abandoned promises.

Clark had met broken men before. 

Had interviewed them, written about them, tried to tell their stories in ways that did them justice. But Bruce was something else. 

He wasn’t just broken —he was buried , too far gone to dig himself out, too stubborn to ask for help but too human to pretend he didn’t need it. 

And Clark couldn’t let that go. 

He couldn’t walk away from it. Couldn’t stop the way it gnawed at his chest like a wound left untreated.

But Bruce Wayne wasn’t the story.

Not yet.

The story was Drops . The story was Gotham’s underground. The story was the way the city had been eaten from the inside out, left hollow, left weak .

Clark dragged a slow breath through his nose, straightened his shoulders, and finally let his fingers find the keyboard.

The drug is called Drops.

He stared at the words, let them settle into the space in front of him, the weight of them heavier than they should have been. Then—

It hits fast. Burns through you like fire, ignites every nerve, makes you feel unstoppable. A high so potent it only takes one hit to know you want another. Two to know you need it. And by the third? You belong to it.

Clark let the words sink in before continuing, his fingers moving more steadily now, his focus narrowing.

Metropolis has seen its fair share of drugs cycle through its streets, but Drops doesn’t belong to Metropolis. This one is Gotham’s. A toxin born in its underbelly, cultivated in the filth, spreading like an infection through its veins. It’s not just a drug—it’s a business. And business is thriving.

His jaw tightened as his mind flickered back to the conversation with Bruce about the pit’s, to the crowd pressed against rusted barriers, to the way cash exchanged hands faster than the bodies hitting the floor. The fights weren’t just entertainment. They were part of the system, part of the machine that kept everything running.

The drug is being pushed through the underground. Sold in back alleys, in clubs, in the places people don’t walk out of looking the same. Some use it to escape. Some use it to fight. Some don’t even get a choice. The pit fights aren’t just about money—they’re about desperation. Fighters take Drops to keep going, to feel strong, to survive another round, another night. And the ones who don’t? They fight men who do. The outcome is always the same. Someone goes down. And not everyone gets back up.

Clark flexed his fingers, the words coming faster now, his thoughts spilling out before he could second-guess them.

What we know is this: Someone is keeping the supply running. Someone is making sure Gotham stays hooked. And if Gotham is hooked, Gotham stays weak.

His breath came slower as he sat back, his eyes scanning the screen. It wasn’t finished. It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Because he still didn’t name the man behind it.

Penguin.

[chemical-processes]

ideas for a mer au:

so gotham bay is notoriously extremely toxic and a known site for chemical waste dumping. how might that impact a mer au??

from like, a mythos perspective martha and thomas wayne used to be these iconic protectors of gotham bay. everyone knew about them and believed they brought good luck to the city. but then as the city starts becoming more crime ridden and corrupt the bay becomes more infested with pollution and poachers, who end up killing the waynes.

so in the future mers are either snatched out of gotham bay quick and kept in aquariums/holding facilities, or they slowly become biohazardously infected with all the garbage and toxins that are in the gotham bay soup. and perhaps…the only part of the gotham waters that aren’t infected with some form of toxicity…are the underwater caves beneath the city (batcavebatcavebatcave). i think it would be interesting if there was a clear difference between the mers who were snatched from the toxic water at a young age and weren’t mutated/changed by gotham, versus the ones who stayed in the bay but there’s something a little /different/ about them.

oooh anon the pollution element. THAT IS SO FUN

I love the idea of Bruce having to go down and see it. The things that live in the bottom of the bay. The wrong, diseased things. The reason some ships never reach the harbor. I love Bruce feeling responsible for it, or like he owes it to his parents to do something about it, even if that's just to witness.

I'm imagining the harbor connecting to the canals in the cave, the first time Bruce goes down there in the earliest stages of his vigilante crusade, getting pulled into the water by webbed hands and nearly drowned by a creature that looks nothing like the dociley smiling mers in the rehab and release facilities his mother funded.

On the other hand, here's an interesting Nat Geo Article on Killifish, a sort of canary in the coalmine species for ecosystems due to their sensitivity to pollution, some of which have genetically mutated to be incredibly not sensitive. They look, breed, and behave similarly to their unmutated counterparts, but they can survive in wildly inhospitable waters. Absolutely no visual cue separating the Gotham mers from any others, except there's something not right about them.

Urugh there's so many ways to go with this I'm absolutely obsessed. The thing that always trips me up is I'm never sure who should be a mer and who shouldn't.

Anyways I did a lil research because the pollution mutated mers Killed me and I will be thinking about that for the rest of the night So:

Here's another article from the Marine Pollution Bulletin on the affect of PAH's (harmful oil compounds) on the fish population. It's a thought experiment but the intro section is enlightening.

I was going to put an image of a mutated pig from the chernobyl museum, but I was a bit worried that someone might think it graphic and be disturbed so here's a link instead! Imagine dragging a lake for the latest murder victim and you pull up a misshapen diseased mer with six limbs too many and half of another mer's body attached to it. Imagine the humanitarian crisis at play here.

Also tossing around the notion that no one knows mers exist, or maybe after Martha and Thomas died there was some major spill/dumping into the harbor and it was assumed the Gotham population had all died out, only for Bruce to have an incredibly close encounter

[murder-of-one]

Jonathan Crane Headconnon (Part: 1)

By, MissPhobia (Murder-Of-One)

“Birthday, yet again.”

The old grandfather clock chimed eleven at night from the dark dusty hall upstairs, ringing low and somber all of eleven times then resuming its loud constant ticking. The smell of fresh baked pumpkin pie wafting down from the kitchen. The night was quiet and cold as it always was this time of year. At least it beat living within Gotham City limits, no guns and car alarms going off anymore since Jonathan took over the old abandoned home last year. 30 minute drive to Arkham- work, and 45 minutes into the heart of the city.

The empty syringes lie in front of him in a neat new box, crisp white in contrast to the dark oak desk beneath it as he worked injecting the precise measurement of toxin into each of the syringes, hands aching at the joins, cold and tired from use. The basement was fitting for him, cold, dark, uninviting as he was. Maybe that was why he always spent his birthdays alone. Then again there never was much cause for celebration. Granny certainly didn’t think so. He could hear her harsh old southern voice still, “Only selfish brats and those who can’t see God’s grace celebrate themselves over the Lord.” She would say with an added loud thwack of her ruler on the top of his head for good measure.

“Another year gone by, still so much work to do.” He spoke to himself, even he was surprised by the scratch of his throat, dry from no use that day other than one cup of coffee that morning and approximately 4 cigarettes, the last still a dull ember in the ashtray next to him.

“Once again on my own, nothing and no one to enjoy the day with. How Granny would be proud.” He mocked, hating the woman even as she rotted in the earth 870 miles away from him.

What couldn’t have felt like a full hour later the old clock once more announced the hour in its somber tone. Midnight, a new day. His birthday. He took a swig from the glass of whiskey he’d made about 20 minutes ago, admiring the finished box of toxin, ready for use. The auburn liquor burned its way down his throat, leaving a sharp taste in his mouth. Setting the glass down with a thick clink he rose from his creaky chair and picked up the remnants of cigarette number five, inhaling one final drag, allowing the cool smoke to choke out the memory of that nasty woman. Another year, another step towards his goals of fear everlasting.

“Happy birthday to me.” He said blowing the smoke back out and tap-tap-tapping the cigarette out into the dirty ashtray. A happy birthday indeed.

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR I

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.6k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This story is inspired by the 2012 movie This Means War. I went back and forth on whether to write it with a named OC or in reader format—and ultimately decided to try something new and go with reader-insert. I usually write in third person with original characters, so this is a bit of a different style for me. As for who the reader ends up with… I haven’t made a final decision yet—maybe one of them, maybe both. Feel free to let me know who you’re rooting for! Hope you enjoy the chaos! warnings: None so far except for the fact that I don't know anything about neuroscience only what my research brings up, so I'm praying the shit I write makes sense

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The lecture hall smelled like old paper and burnt coffee. You stood at the front, spine straight despite the fatigue threading through your muscles. Behind you, the whiteboard was half-covered in scrawls of chemical structures and dopamine pathways, neatly drawn and precisely labeled. It was the kind of lecture that left half the room wide-eyed with curiosity… and the other half silently praying for mercy.

With a quiet click, you capped your marker and continued. “Neurotransmitter binding is not a one-size-fits-all process,” you said, voice steady as your gaze swept across rows of glazed eyes and frantic scribbles. “It’s dynamic. It’s reactive. It’s shaped by genetics, trauma, medication—even what you ate for breakfast.”

A hand shot up in the second row.

“So… like, can serotonin make you hallucinate?”

You blinked. “No. And if it does, someone’s given you something else—and you should go to the ER. Immediately.”

A ripple of laughter. A few groans.

Another hand rose—this one from a sharp-eyed girl near the back. “In Joker toxin exposure cases, have you ever seen synthetic mimicry of dopamine flood patterns?”

Now that was a question worth respecting.

You’d specialized in Joker toxin during your postgraduate years, had seen firsthand the neurological carnage it left behind. The clown was a madman no doubt—but a dangerously brilliant madman.

Your mouth tugged into a faint smirk. “Yes. And no. But that’s a topic for next week.”

The clock ticked toward the hour. You fielded three more questions—one insightful, two exhausting—before dismissing the class. 

Backpacks zipped. Conversations stirred. As the last student filed out, you finally exhaled. Slowly. The silence was a relief.

Rolling your shoulders, you gathered your coat and bag, the weariness catching up to you in waves as you made your way toward the door—hungry, tired, and vaguely craving something that didn’t taste like caffeine or sugary energy drinks.

Gotham’s streets buzzed with their usual chaos—honking cabs, barking vendors, motorcycles weaving between traffic like they were flirting with death. You walked with familiar ease, the city noise fading beneath the throb behind your eyes and the pressure at the back of your skull.

Your hand drifted up to your bun. It had been tightly wound since six in the morning, and now it felt like a migraine on a countdown. Mercifully, you didn’t have to be in the lab today—no microscopes, no sterile gloves, no post-doc breathing down your neck. Just freedom. Glorious, unwashed, unbothered freedom.

So you didn’t hesitate. One by one, you tugged the pins from your hair, each metallic clink falling into your coat pocket like a tiny rebellion. The strands spilled down, wild and full of indents, but you didn’t care. You tipped your head back, rubbed at your aching scalp with slow, tender fingers, and sighed like you’d been holding your breath all day.

You looked like hell. You felt like hell. But you were done. No lectures. No lab reports. Your appearance be damned you just wanted to spend the rest of the day in comfort. 

Your boots clicked along the sidewalk as you headed toward Café Nero, already imagining the warmth of a latte in your hands—despite your earlier claim about cutting back on caffeine. A lie, obviously. Caffeine was practically your lifeblood— and something carby in your mouth.

But the universe had other plans.

You turned the corner—and nearly collided headfirst with a ghost.

Jake.

Three years of your life bundled into one name, one face. One half-curved smile that looked exactly like it used to and somehow worse now that it was being directed at someone else.

Three years of your life compressed into one name. One face. One irritatingly familiar smirk. His arm was around a tall blonde, her smile radiant and far too trusting. He wore the same smug charm he always had as he said something that had her giggling. 

He noticed you first.

“Hey!” he said, voice way too bright. “Y/N. Wow. You look…” his eyes flicked over your rumpled sweater, your wild hair, “…great. Still at the university? Tinkering away in your little lab?”

You straightened instinctively, spine snapping to attention like your body was trying to make up for the indignity of the moment. Of all the days to run into him.

“I am,” you replied, polite but clipped.

Three years together, and he still couldn’t grasp the importance of your work—or the lives it affected. Your research had been groundbreaking, and he’d always referred to it like you were tinkering with science fair projects.

The blonde leaned into his side with a warm smile. “You didn’t tell me your ex was brilliant and pretty.”

You wanted to hate her. Truly, you did. But unfortunately… she actually seemed sweet.

He laughed. “I forget sometimes.” Then turned back to you with that same infuriatingly casual smirk. “Oh—uh, Y/N, this is my fiancée, Hannah.”

The word hit like a slap.

Fiancée.

Only a year ago, you’d walked in on him and his yoga instructor, limbs tangled and guilt nowhere in sight. He’d thrown away three years with you like it was nothing—and now, not even twelve months later, he’d found someone new and locked her down with a ring so big it probably needed its own insurance policy.

You managed a smile. A real one, for her sake. Sort of. “It’s nice to meet you.” Your eyes dropped to the large, glittering ring on her hand.

“Wow,” you said with a tight smile. “That’s… that’s a big rock.” You let out an awkward laugh, trying muster the slightest bit of enthusiasm you definitely weren’t feeling on the inside. “You’re engaged. To be married.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. Things just… clicked. It was like fate.” Then he reached out and stroked her cheek with the kind of performative tenderness that made your stomach churn. 

God. How had you ever loved this man?

“Isn’t that right, baby?” he murmured.

Someone gag you with a spoon.

You stood there, frozen in place, as Jake pulled Hannah in for a kiss—deep as if he was trying to fit his entire tongue down her throat. Screw you, you thought. Screw you for rubbing her in my face.

You cleared your throat, the sound awkward and a little too loud. “Well, I should get going,” you began—except your mouth didn’t stop there.

Your brain screamed abort, but your tongue had other plans.

“I actually have to go meet my guy. Yeah, he’s a neuroscientist too. We, uh… met at work.” You nodded like that somehow made it more convincing. “Anyway…”

You cleared your throat again, silently begging yourself to shut up.

“It was… great seeing you. And congrats. On the ring. The upcoming wedding. Your whole… life. All of it.” You winced inwardly. “Well… Peace.”

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, you topped it off by flashing a peace sign like some glitching robot before turning and briskly walking away.

The second you were out of sight, your smile collapsed. You pressed your lips together, debating whether to scream into the sky or crawl into the nearest sewer.

“Someone kill me right now,” you muttered under your breath.

CAFÉ NERO

You finally made it to the café, and with it, your mortification began to loosen its grip. The familiar scent of roasted beans and fresh pastries wrapped around you like a warm blanket, softening the sting of everything that had come before.

Inside, it was calm—the gentle hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of scattered conversations. A peaceful hum that felt like the complete opposite of Jake and his nauseating tongue display.

You slipped into your usual seat at the counter, letting your bag slump to the floor, and leaned against the worn wood like it might hold you up a little longer.

“Ah! Doctora!” Juan greeted you with a bright smile from behind the bar.

He was a sweet kid—maybe nineteen—who’d moved to Gotham from Mexico about six months ago. His English was improving steadily, though every now and then he’d still stumble over a few words. You’d quietly helped where you could. While he knew your name, he aways insisted on calling you Doctora like it was your superhero title. 

You snorted at the thought. You, a superhero? You couldn’t even save yourself from an awkward conversation with your ex.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for your cup.

“Si, please,” you nodded.

He glanced up with a curious smile. “Long day?”

You let out a soft groan, dropping your face into your hands. “You have no idea.”

The door chimed behind you, but you didn’t bother looking up. Not until you felt someone hovering a little too close to the seat beside you. 

You prayed your luck wasn’t that shitty.

But of course, it was.

Jake’s familiar chuckle slid into your ears like nails on glass. You closed your eyes for half a second, steeling yourself, before slowly peeling your face from your hands.

“This is too funny,” he said with a grin. “What a coincidence.”

“Right! Absolutely hilarious,” you replied, forcing a smile that you hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt as you saw Jake and Hannah standing there.

“I’m assuming this is your boyfriend’s seat?” Jake asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, ye—”

Before you could finish, Juan slid your drink across the counter, cheerful as ever.

“No, Doctora,” he said, accent warm, words slightly clipped at the edges. “Order for one. Always order for one. Seat is free.”

You nearly choked on air.

Hannah giggled while Jake said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows slightly, in that smug little way he used to do when he thought he’d won something.

God, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You smiled tightly. “It is. I’m meeting him back at work. Just stopped in quick. Juan, I thought I said I needed this to-go?”

Juan frowned, brows pinching together. “Mmm… no, I don’ think so. You say you finish work. You always sit here, like always.”

“Not this time,” you said—too sharp, too fast.

Juan’s face fell a little. Guilt bloomed in your chest like a bruise, he didn’t deserve that. It was your own damn fault for digging the hole in you were now.

You sighed, softer this time. “Lo siento, Juan. Can you make it to-go, please?”

He nodded, already reaching for the paper cup and bag.

You turned back to Jake with a forced laugh. “Seat’s all yours.”

The second Juan handed you the new cup and pastry bag, you thanked him quietly, paid, and practically sprinted for the door—mortified, humiliated, and more than ready to go home and bury yourself under ten layers of shame.

MILO & ANTHONY’S APARTMENT

“Ugh! I wanted to die right then and there,” you groaned, collapsing dramatically onto Milo and Anthony’s couch, a glass of wine already halfway gone. Their apartment was across from yours, and you’d made a beeline for it the second you got home, desperate to drink your embarrassment into submission. “I fucking peaced them.”

Anthony winced. “Yeah, that’s… pretty bad.”

“That’s because you need to go out more,” Milo said, waving his wine glass like a pointer. “Meet someone. Rub him all over Jake’s face like a human flex—same way he’s doing with that girl, Hayley.”

“Hannah,” you corrected automatically. “And she seemed sweet.”

“She could be as sweet as cotton candy dipped in honey and I still wouldn’t give a shit,” Milo snapped. “I give a shit about you. And you cannot keep letting that asshole rent space in your head.”

You opened your mouth, but Milo steamrolled right over you.

“Fine if you’re not ready for anything serious, but girl—you need to go out and get some good dick. That pussy is drier than the Sahara.”

You choked on your wine. “Hey! I get some!”

Milo deadpanned you. “Your vibrator doesn’t count. Honestly, it should start charging you. Thing looks like it’s about to file for workers’ comp.”

You blinked. “Have you been going through my drawers again?!”

He shrugged without shame. “I was looking for your face cream.”

“And you thought I keep that in my underwear drawer?” 

“Look, the point is,” he said, sitting forward, “you need to go out. Date. Even just a casual thing. I hate seeing you mope over that troll.”

“I’m not moping,” you muttered.

Anthony gave you a soft smile—too kind for this earth. “We’re just worried about you. And hey, for the record, we’re glad you moved here. You’re part of our chaos now.”

You exhaled, guilt and warmth stirring in your chest. “I know. It’s just… I can’t believe I was that blind. I nearly gave up everything for him. I even moved back to this shit-hole of a city—where clowns and penguins blow up buildings and guys in capes fight crime in full spandex.”

“Well, at least Gotham has a certain… charm,” Anthony offered.

“I mean, it’s great if your idea of charm is daily arson,” you deadpanned.

“We are happy you’re here,” Milo agreed, his voice softer for once. “But you’ve gotta stop beating yourself up. Even I thought he might’ve been your person—but he wasn’t. That’s on him. His loss, not yours. You’ve gotta move forward, babe.”

“I am dating,” you said weakly.

“No, you’re talking to people. You don’t even give them a real shot.” He raised his brows. “You can’t test chemistry without mixing the liquids.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s more complex than just ‘mixing liquids,’ Milo. There’s neural signaling, oxytocin regulation, attachment frameworks, behavioral conditioning… Timing alone can throw everything off. You can’t just drop two people into a room and expect chemistry. That’s not chemistry—it’s chaos.”

“Why not?” Milo shrugged. “People do it all the time. You’re overthinking it—as usual. But if it helps, just treat it like another one of your experiments.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argued. “My experiments have structure. Charts. Data. Equations. Control groups.”

“Exactly!” Milo clapped his hands. “Which is why you should try online dating. They have charts and shit.”

You let out a snort. “Please. In this city? Knowing my luck, I’d end up matched with a serial killer. Or worse—the Joker.”

Anthony tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does the Joker even online date?”

Milo groaned. “You’re both insane. There are plenty of semi-normal people on those apps. It’s how me and Anthony met.”

You gave him a flat look. “Exactly.”

You gave him a long, pointed look. “Point proven.”

“No.” Milo leaned in. “The point is you need to get back out there. Whether it’s for a wham-bam-thank-you-man kind of night, or you end up calling me crying because you just met the father of your future babies—I don’t care. You just can’t keep living in Jake’s memory. Not everyone is like him.”

You groaned, tipping back the rest of your wine in one go. “I know that.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a look.

“I do!” you insisted. “Look, can we table this for now? I just want to drown my feelings and make future-me regret the hangover I’m definitely earning tonight.”

GOTHAM ROOFTOPS

Boots hit the edge of a rooftop with a soft scrape of gravel. Jason Todd scanned the streets below, hands resting at his sides, jacket collar tugged up against the bite of the early spring cold. He moved with restless energy—agitated, impatient, ready for something to go wrong.

“This is a bust,” he muttered into the comms. “Three blocks, no action. Not even a wannabe thug with a pocket knife and poor life choices. I’m starting to think Gotham forgot how to be Gotham.”

There was a beat of silence before Dick’s voice came through, dry and amused.

“Or maybe you’re just scaring the criminals too much, Hood. Ever consider early retirement?”

Jason rolled his eyes behind the mask. “Only if you go first, Nightwing. I thought Blüdhaven was where all the action was—what’re you doing slumming it with us Gotham bottom-feeders?”

“It is,” Dick replied. “But every now and then I like to slum it with my baby brother. Make sure you’re not burning down half the city in my absence.”

Jason snorted. “You’re only older by what, five years and a moral superiority complex?”

Before Dick could answer, Barbara’s voice cut in over the channel, sharp and clear.

“Seems like you’re about to get your wish, Jason. I’ve got eyes on suspicious movement down at the docks—east side, Warehouse Eleven.” Barbara drawled through the comms. 

Jason was already moving, boots hitting gravel as he took off across the rooftop. “Now we’re talking.”

Dick followed a step behind, vaulting over a low pipe with practiced ease. “Arms deal?”

“Most likely,” Barbara confirmed. “Thermal scans show at least four bodies. No confirmed ID yet, but one of them matches a known associate of Black Mask.  “Be smart. And try not to level the building, Jason.”

“No promises,” he said, grin audible.

WAREHOUSE ELEVEN, EAST DOCKS

The docks were dead quiet when they arrived—too quiet. The kind of stillness that always meant something was waiting to go wrong. The air smelled like oil and sea rot, and the only sounds were the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of aging chains swaying in the wind.

Jason crouched at the edge of a container stack, pistols holstered at his thighs, his gaze locked on the warehouse below. His breath clouded in the cool air.

“East lot’s clear,” he murmured into the comms. “Nothing but rats and roaches.”

Dick landed beside him in a soundless roll. “So, your usual crowd.”

Jason didn’t glance over. “That’s twice tonight. Keep it up and I’ll tell everyone you cried during that Pixar movie.”

“I was twelve. And it was Up, you heartless bastard.”

“Still counts.”

They moved in silence, slipping through a broken window high on the warehouse wall. Their boots hit the rafters without a whisper. Below them, four men circled a battered folding table strewn with crates, unmarked cases, and haphazard stacks of cash. A single overhead bulb flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows across the concrete floor.

Jason zoomed in with his HUD. “I know that one—left side. Carlo Mancini. Low-tier runner for Sionis. Looks like he’s about to piss himself.”

“Might mean he knows something,” Dick murmured.

They listened.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Mancini hissed, voice tight and shaky. “It’s gonna be big. Joker-level big.”

One of the others scoffed. “The hell you talkin’ about? Joker’s been off the grid for months.”

“Yeah, and now he’s back. Lookin’ for someone—some guy who used to run with him, then bailed. Word is, he took something. Something important.”

Jason’s fingers curled slowly around the grip of his pistol.

“It’s not his usual stuff either,” Mancini went on, voice dropping to a whisper. “Heard it’s from Scarecrow too. Some freak chemical—don’t kill you right away. Makes you laugh yourself insane. Till your heart gives out.”

A beat of silence.

“No cure for it, either.”

Jason exhaled. “Shit.”

Beside him, Dick’s jaw flexed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Jason gave a tight nod. “If the Joker and Scarecrow teamed up and made something new—and someone stole it…”

Dick’s voice was grim. “Then Gotham just became a countdown clock. And we’re already late.”

Without another word, they moved.

Jason dropped from the rafters like a shadow cutting through fog, landing hard enough to make one of the thugs flinch. Dick followed a breath behind, graceful and quiet. By the time the first man reached for his weapon, Jason had already disarmed him with a sharp twist of his wrist and sent him sprawling with a solid elbow to the jaw.

Dick swept the legs out from under another, zip-tying his wrists with practiced ease. The other two barely had time to shout before they were taken down—one with a stun baton to the ribs, the other with a boot to the sternum.

Mancini tried to run.

Jason caught him by the collar, slammed him against a crate with just enough force to knock the air from his lungs. “Going somewhere?”

The runner gasped, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t—look, I don’t know anything!”

“You know enough to be scared,” Jason growled, pressing his forearm into the man’s throat. “So start talking.”

“Okay—okay!” Mancini wheezed, both hands raised in surrender. “I just heard whispers, man. Word on the street is Joker and the ‘crow are lookin’ for someone—most likely one of his old runners. Said he took something. Chemical notes, maybe the whole damn formula. Whatever it is, it’s important. Real important. Joker’s tearing through people trying to get it back.”

Jason’s gaze darkened. “You know who this guy is?”

“No name,” Mancini coughed. “Just that he used to run logistics—backdoor stuff. Quiet type. Smart guy. Kept to himself. Real ghost.”

“Not smart enough if he got himself tangled up with the Joker and Scarecrow,” Dick muttered.

Jason’s hand tightened. For a moment, Dick thought he might snap.

“Jason,” he said, quiet. A reminder.

Jason let go.

Mancini dropped to his knees, coughing and trembling. Jason stepped back into the shadows, tapping his comm.

“You catch all that, Oracle?”

Barbara’s voice filtered in, sharp and efficient. “Every word. Red Robin and B are already digging. If this guy’s in Gotham, we’ll find him. But until then, you two are off the clock. Get some rest.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dick shot him a look. “Try to actually listen for once. Not everything has to be solved in one night.” 

With that, he clapped Jason on the shoulder and nudged him toward the exit—just as the distant wail of GCPD sirens broke the silence, growing louder with every passing second. Cleanup crew was on its way.

Jason didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his thoughts already miles ahead—backtracking whispers, dissecting clues, remembering the sound of laughter that still echoed in the corners of his nightmares.

It was rare for the Joker to get invested in anything. He thrived on chaos, not consistency. But if he was serious enough to go out of his way to hunt down some nobody, then whoever had the formula was sitting on a bomb.

Next Chapter →

[brucestalia]

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The Monarch Theatre, perhaps best remembered as the final stage for Gotham’s sweethearts, Thomas and Martha Wayne, remained a ghost of tragedy until it shuttered its doors, lives stolen in the alley just beyond its walls.

Years later, it reopened, its marbled facade gleaming under Gotham’s wary moon. Tonight, it played host to a performance of The Wizard of Oz – a glittering reprieve for the city’s elite.

Whispers flitted through the audience. The actor meant to play the Scarecrow had vanished—only to reappear just moments before the play began.

But, Gotham was a city of masks and deception. The man stepping onto the stage was no actor. The Scarecrow himself, had made his grand entrance, as if the theatre’s cursed legacy had summoned him.

Somewhere in the crowd, the Clown Prince of Crime leaned back in his seat, an eerie grin stretching across his painted face.  Before slipping away, he left behind a single card, fluttering onto the velvet cushion, whistling as he went.

The Gotham elite’s irritation was a mere prelude to the chaos ahead.

“Not so fast, Joker,” growled a low voice. The Dark Knight perched above, a gargoyle given life. But before Batman could finish, the world erupted—a blast of Crane’s fear toxin unfurled through the crowd like a living nightmare.

The Joker vanished. Shadows danced in the gas, and the screams of panicked civilians blurred into a cacophony. The Dark Knight’s body betrayed him, heavy and unresponsive, as the Scarecrow emerged, his straw-like fingers stretching toward the cowl.

 Fear rooted him in place as the toxin’s tendrils curled through his mind.

“Let us see what tragedy the cowl hides, shall we?”

The words gnawed at Bruce’s mind, but his body refused him the strength to respond. Batman wanted to resist, to strike, to speak. He braced for the unveiling, for the exposure of his wounds, until—

“No.”

A voice like a spear cutting through the din.

Her black dress whispered against the floor, fur draped regally over her shoulders. Pearls shimmered around her neck, a cruel vision of another night, another woman.

Talia al Ghul.

Batman blinked, dazed. Then, cutting through the haze, came the sharp crack of a heel against Crane’s skull.

He crumpled to the ground. She moved past the fallen rogue, and extended a hand to the Bat.

Bruce’s vision blurred.

“Mom?”

For a moment, her face shifted. Brown hair became raven-black, dark waves morphed into softer curls,  and piercing green eyes softened into the gentle blue of another.

“We have to go, Bruce,”  Talia hesitated – her voice wavered, just for a moment. Her grip faltered, but urgency called louder than grief.

It couldn’t be. Martha Wayne was a memory etched into his bones, a gloom cast by pearls scattered on asphalt. 

Behind this theatre, all those years ago, Martha Wayne had died. It couldn’t be her.

And yet, the figure before him felt too real. Her presence tugged at the fractured edges of his mind.

“Bruce, come on,” she urged, despite the persisting tremor in her grip. “We don’t have much time.”

The toxin gnawed at him, but he forced a nod. With her help, he rose. The world felt unsteady beneath him.

Talia shouldered his weight, guiding him forward. His limbs were sluggish with fear.

“Step with me. One foot, then the other,” she said, softly, leading him towards the safety of the Batmobile.

Scarecrow’s men were already regrouping at the theatre’s entrance, falling victim to a ticking Batarang’s wrath, exploding in a flash of smoke and light. Through the fumes, Talia caught sight of red hair—Batwoman, mouthing a single word: Go.

By the time they reached the vehicle, another group blocked their path, only to be felled by the sharp crack of Catwoman’s whip. The city’s dark defenders moved like clockwork, protecting their own.

Talia pressed on, manoeuvring Bruce into the Batmobile. It roared to life, and Talia’s hands moved instinctively over the controls, the streets of Gotham as familiar to her as the curve of her Beloved’s face. 

The journey back to the Cave was swift, but Bruce’s fever burned brighter with every mile. By the time they arrived, he was barely conscious, his breaths shallow. Talia peeled back the cowl with care, her hands steady despite the tightness in her throat.

She pressed a small kiss to his forehead.

The hours went by. Night crept on, and fevered dreams clung to Bruce like a second skin. 

Alfred prepared porridge that went uneaten, the bowls cooling beside an untouched glass of water.  Talia remained by his side, blotting his fevered brow with a damp cloth, even as Alfred brought her tea to ward off exhaustion.

In the pale light of dawn, Bruce stirred, gasping, as the memory of Scarecrow’s fingers clawed at his mind. His hands flew to his face, searching the cowl he swore had been torn from—but found only skin. 

Panicked, his fingers closed around a wrist—soft, familiar.

It was Talia, her other hand poised with the cloth.

Martha Wayne’s pearls remained locked safely in their glass tomb, as they always were. Tragedy remained, but so did love.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

this is unabashedly self-indulgent, but oh well, we’re here now haha! inspired partly by that killer croc scene in son of batman, and brutalia’s first-ever encounter in the comics.

katelina mentioned woohoo :>

most of this really comes from the idea that talia might remind alfred of martha sometimes (maybe more than sometimes).

love may fade, but trust that brutalia will endure (>_<)

[honourablejester]

Blades in the Dark Character Concept: Back Alley Leech

My immediate next thought, following the Lovecraftian Tycherosi Whisper? A back alley doctor of a Leech! Back alley doctor is just a trope I deeply enjoy, and Leeches fit that bill!

So. We’re going to be doing a physicker leech, someone who looks out for people on the wrong side of the law. Naturally, my first thought for Heritage is Skovlan, because refugees. Because Skovlan just lost a war, and Doskvol is full of disenfranchised and displaced Skovlanders. So we have a doctor, a Skovlander herself, who was trained in Skovlan, and who when she landed here wanted to use her skills to help her fellow countrymen where perhaps the native Akorosians might not.

With that, with Skovlan as a thought. The reason Skovlan went to war, 30 years ago, was because the Empire moved a huge chunk of their incredibly toxic leviathan blood processing to the Skovlan factory town of Lockport. And Skovlan protested. Strenuously. For thirty years. And lost. So … Maybe she’s from Lockport, our girl. Maybe she’s seen the results of leviathan blood on the human body. Maybe that’s her particular bugbear here, too. Because leviathan hunting is the literal lifeblood of the city, and the lightning walls do keep the ghosts out, and she understands the reasoning for it, but she hates it. All those rich families with their hunting fleets, spending the bodies of those beneath them without a care. She’d tear them down with her own hands if she could.

Background … Could have gone Trade, for doctor, but I think we’re going Underworld, because we’re going to put some emphasis on the back alley part of back alley doctor. She started out just helping fellow refugees, but sooner or later she got dragged into treating other patients that the law wouldn’t look kindly on. Sometimes willingly, sometimes less so.

For our action dots, she gets two Tinker and one Wreck from Leech. For her heritage dot, I think we’ll give her Skirmish. Skovlan only recently lost the war, after all. For background, Study, because you can’t be a doctor without it. For her free dots, I’m going to give her Consort, because back alley doctors have contacts, and Survey. I did consider another dot of Study, especially since her special ability lets her use it, and it’d make sense for a researcher doctor, but I thought that a paranoid underworld doctor in particular might also want a nose for trouble and an ability to tell when to get the hell out of dodge. So, total, she has two Tinker, and then one each of Wreck, Skirmish, Study, Consort, and Survey.

Our special ability is, of course, going to be Physicker. The primary reason for playing a Leech, this lets us use Tinker on people to help patch them up, and Study on corpses or diseases. Which. That one might be interesting.

Friends and rivals. Now. This is interesting. Friend, not so much, I think we’re just going to take Stazia, our friendly neighbourhood apothecary. A former scoundrel turned legit, so quite possibly an old patient from our underworld background. But the interesting part. The Rival. One of the options is Jul, a blood dealer. Now, the book doesn’t seem to clarify exactly what this means, but I would dearly love if it was leviathan blood they’re dealing. Since our girl is from Lockport. And she has fucking opinions on what that stuff does to the human body and what sorts of people put it there. She hates this person with a passion. Them, and everyone like them, all the way up to the Leviathan Hunters themselves.

Our vice, more mundanely, is going to be Obligation. She wants to help her people, both fellow Skovlanders, and also those affected by leviathan blood and other toxic substances. For purveyors, I know there are several Skovlander organisations in Doskvol. Not sure on the anti-toxin end.

Finally, Name, Alias, and Look. She’s a thin, drawn, harried-looking woman, unhealthily pale even by Skovlan and perpetual-night standards, with mousy brown hair and eyes so washed out they’re pretty much colourless. People often recognise her by the scrupulously clean pinafore she wears over her plain skirt-and-blouse while attending patients. Her name is Mara Brogan, and her alias …

Would ‘Nightingale’ be too on-the-nose? Heh. Probably. But I think we’ll go with it.

So. A back-alley physicker, a doctor turned refugee turned criminal, a Lockport survivor of the Unity War and the leviathan blood toxins both. Mara Brogan. A Skovlander Leech.

[armageddonfm]

ARMAGEDDON'S EVENT 004: ASH STORM

a storm is brewing. in the distance, thunder roars and the hum of electricity is sharp in the air. signals have flown in from several other settlements in the storm's path, garbled messages reporting disappointment, and then silence—not rain, ash.

CONSEQUENCES

for the next month, a radioactive ash storm will enclose the basin that sol city exists in. what this means is that NO TRAVEL OUTSIDE THE CITY WILL BE PERMITTED. characters in jobs outside the city will once again be temporarily relocated to other sectors. food and water will be heavily rationed at this time in order to account for the lack of new resources coming into the city. communication with the outside world has been completely cut off until the storms pass. characters will be required to wear protective gear when outside unless they are resistant to radiation, pollution, electricity, and other airborne toxins. characters with sensitivities to these hazards may find themselves unable to go outside at all. buildings within and beneath the city are protected from the storm and as of right now have no shortage of filtered oxygen.

CONCLUSIONS

this event will last ONE MONTH, starting on march 11th and ending on april 11th. we ask that all non-event threads be wrapped up or dropped by the end of the weekend and that no new non-event starters be posted until its conclusion. remember to mask up!

[annwrites]

⸻ beecher's hope. ⸻

· pairing: charles smith x fem!reader · type: part of a miniseries · summary: you & charles find yourselves settled at long last. · tags: fluff, angst · word count: 1.7k

Little Arthur is seven-years-old now, and he looks just like his father. The fact fills your heart near to bursting. 

The three of you lived in Saint Denis for some time, even if you each equally despised the city, whose air was filled with toxins so thick it blocked out the light of the sun, until an old, familiar face came calling, asking for help. One with a scar and a crooked smile. 

John Marston. 

He regaled the both of you with the events that transpired which caused the final fallout of the gang. How Dutch fled like a coward with a chest full of gold, while Micah was Arthur’s demise, as well as Susan’s. 

Arthur, who saved John. Who…gave his life so John’s would go on. 

Now John is a proper family man. Or, is trying to be as much, at least. He has purchased for himself a good bit of land called Beecher’s Hope, which he means to erect a house upon for Abigail, who he intends to make his wife, and for his own little one, Jack, who is not so little anymore. Uncle is there, too, which you are glad to hear: that yet one more soul made it away from the firefight of that last night that took place upon the grounds of that cursed ridge. 

John wishes also to raise a barn, and plant crops, so he may try his hand at being a farmer. 

He offers your husband steady work, and a bit of pay, if he will aid him in his endeavors. You know Charles does not want to take his money, but you beg him to. You don’t know how much longer you can bear watching him make his way in the world with his fists. For each time he is hurt, a piece of you is ripped away with it.

John thus insists, for your sake, that he accept the coin he has to give. 

Charles agrees, if not reluctantly.

It is lovely here. A bit dry, perhaps, but quiet, and away from civilization. There’s privacy to be had, and a brand new life to make.

Abigail is all-too pleased with her new home. As well as the new title she bears of ‘wife’. You are immeasurably happy for their little family, and that John is to now make an honest living. 

One night, once all in the house have gone to sleep, you and Charles sneak out to a far-off field, where he makes love to you beneath the glimmering stars. 

As he slides between your familiar walls, which hold him firm, you whisper that you wish to bear him another child. He does what he can to oblige your request when he spills himself inside of you.

Sadie Adler has come calling with shocking news: she has tracked down, through much effort, the whereabouts of Dutch Van der Linde, and his cowardly companion, Micah Bell.

It turns your stomach that the former kept the latter at his side after what he did to Arthur and Susan, right before his very eyes of all things. That he did not execute him upon his knees, while he begged for mercy, just as he would have deserved. 

The men, and Sadie, are preparing for war. They mean to journey north—a considerable ways from home—to avenge Arthur. You refuse to beg your husband to stay, even if you scream at him with your eyes to do as much. You are terrified that none of them will make it back. 

Even Uncle, who is typically all jests and lazing about, grows serious, and tells them he wishes he could come, but his old body will only serve to hold them back. So, he takes John’s gun from the mantle, and ensures him that he will kill anyone who comes calling which is unwelcome upon his land.

You all know, without a doubt, that he means it as he takes watch on the porch with a deathly-silent disposition.

You cling to Charles with trembling limbs, and tear stricken-cheeks, as you beg him to come back to you.

“Return to me. When you do, we’ll properly begin our life together. We’ll go north, into Canada, just like you’ve always talked about. We will make a fresh start, and build ourselves up anew, with our past transgressions left behind us.”

You crush your lips to his while holding him as close as you possibly can, as you do your utmost to commit every part of him to memory. His head of beautiful black hair, his strong nose, his wide shoulders, his plush lips, his soulful eyes, and the clarity of his voice. And his hands which have held you nigh-on every night since you first met. 

You turn to John, who is just saying goodbye to his wife. “You bring my husband back to me. And you come back to your family.”

He merely replies with a solemn nod.

And then you go to Sadie. You give her cheek a soft kiss, and you wrap her in your arms. “You take care of them, and do what you have to to keep yourself safe. This world is not kind to women, so do not be kind to it, if it forces your hand.”

You take a step back while looking them each over. “Kill that son of a bitch, and leave him for the wolves to take.”

You and Abigail keep busy as best you can. There is always something which needs tended to, so the prevention of idle hands is not difficult to achieve. 

You milk the cows and goats, gather eggs from the chickens, and sheer the sheep for wool. The garden is sought to daily. Whether it is weeding, planting, fertilizing, or gathering, it never ends. 

And the house is cleaned often, what between sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, changing linens, washing laundry and dishes, and so on.

Little Arthur and Jack may not be quite so close in age, but they’ve nevertheless become fast friends, which gladdens all of you who remain here, at Beecher’s Hope, to see. Children’s laughter is the perfect cure for sadness, you think. 

In the evenings, once dinner has been prepared, and subsequently consumed, sometimes you all—once the children are fast asleep—sit on the porch for awhile, rocking and telling stories from your days in the gang. The two men who are now being hunted are never mentioned in your recollections, while all those who perished, and left to carve their own path, are.

You pray each night before bed with a wearily bobbing head, for the safety of those who are now so far away. But above all for your husband.

As you crawl into bed and clutch one of his shirts to your chest and nose, you fall asleep, imaging he is here with you now, holding you securely in his arms.

Micah is dead at long last, and you deem he should not be well enough feed for even the rats, but he is of consequence no longer, and that is what matters above all.

Dutch, meanwhile, roams free, which you find difficult to understand.

Your husband and Sadie both had desired his demise, but each deemed it was ultimately John’s judgement to make. He had known him the longest; was practically raised by him. You think that fact is what served to stay his hand when the moment finally came to act. 

Nevertheless, they have all returned, much to your and Abigail’s delight and relief. 

The night they do, you have a great feast, as well as a celebratory bonfire, with song and drink. 

Come the morn, however, the merriment is at its end, and Sadie declares she should be on her way. That the deed is done, as she completed the task she set out to do.

You and Abigail both beckon her to stay awhile longer, but free spirit as she is, your pleas fall upon deaf ears as she departs from you each with a kiss on your cheeks, and heartfelt words gracing your ears.

In due time, you and Charles are the next to follow, even if John tries, with great effort, to convince your husband to stay, and make a home for the two of you on his land. That he and Uncle both will aid him in building it. Even little Jack voices his support, and states he will cut the wood himself to raise your walls with. 

Charles is not to be swayed, however. He is still considered a fugitive, and refutes the prospect of spending his life behind bars while his wife and children are left to their own limited devices. It is his responsibility to look after each one of you, and by finding a new life in Canada is how he should achieve such an end.

“You all write to us, you hear?” Abigail states with red-rimmed eyes, and a cherry nose. 

You cup her cheek while nodding and granting her a watery smile. “As soon as we’re settled. I promise.” you swallow thickly. “I can’t thank you all enough for having us. For letting us be a part of the creation of your home.”

She shakes her head. “I should be thanking ya’ll for that. That, and more.”

She takes you into her arms once more, while Charles and John shake hands and grant each other hearty slaps on the backs. 

You will miss them so dearly, but you take comfort in the possibility of one day returning to visit. 

“We’re home,” Charles murmurs against your cheek as Arthur runs ahead of you through a field of lilac and lavender, hooping and hollering at the sight of the expansive bit of land that lies before the three of you for him to play upon.

Your child stirs in your belly, and Charles rests a gentle, steady hand upon it, thus calming the babe inside. 

“I promise to build you the home you’ve been waiting for. Right here. It will be exactly as you wish for it to be.”

You turn to him and slide a hand up his chest before cupping his cheek. You run the pad of your thumb along his lips while smiling. “I already have everything I need.” you glance toward Arthur and give a slight shrug of your shoulder. “Though, plumbing and electricity should do us well, I think.”

Charles throws his head back and laughs. “I’ll make one of our first purchases a clawfoot tub, then.”

You snicker while rising up upon tiptoes and throwing your arms around his neck, before showering him in kisses to showcase your devoted love.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Hygiene, Health and Hieroglyphs

Welcome, ladies, gents, and genderless horrors, to the 6 month anniversary of my blog! It is time to bore you all, so roll your sleeves up and get ready for the worst world building you've ever heard! (Yes, I had to expand the topic of discussion to these three because I found them to be extremely interlinked. And yes, when I say hieroglyphs, I mean runes. Yes, I just wanted my title to rhyme.)

Now, I will be referring to all diseases/meds in Triworld by relating them to the closest real-world equivalent. This is because you don't have the time to hear me explain the names of each disease and their history, and I don't have the brainpower to come up with names for everything.

With that, we start off on diseases! Because a world with magic is a whole world of additional agony to experience. Water from wells, rivers, or any form of unprocessed water body may be cursed, even if it doesn't seem to be off. Certain kinds of bacteria have evolved to target blossoming young mages, resulting in various unfortunate side effects (After all, we just love watching magic go wild). Don't even get me started on mana-suckers.

So: How do they deal with this? Firstly: Magic. Affinities for healing and warding are rare, but (in pre-modern times) almost every person with a scrap of magic in their veins will have a spell on hand to clear water of any virus or toxin. In every village, there would always be a person to bless any water on hand, especially if they resided near a cursed region.

What exactly are cursed regions, however? Below, you see the map with various areas highlighted.

These are areas where the water itself (be it from wells, rivers, or lakes) holds magical properties. In some regions, like the glade the Ko clan resides in, the water can restore and heal. However, other areas, such as Ceredell, you will find water can bring about hallucinations and psychosis. 

That is why most, if not all, travellers in those times pulled water from the moisture in the air. It was, at the time, one of the greatest drains on travellers, because it meant only those who had the magical capacity to perform that spell regularly could afford to wander, or be forced to risk cursed water. That was also why the great desert, Losaras, was an unexplored haven for species that did not need to drink water, like ghouls and vampires. 

However, that all changed with the invention of runes and enchantment magic by the elves. It meant that any person, even a non-mage, could stock up on water-clearing enchantments and go travel. It meant that a village could stake out a single well and enrune it, to clean it permanently. It saved millions of lives that would have otherwise been lost to cholera, mana-sucking viruses or curses.

Not long after, these runes further revolutionised society by enabling teleportation of resources. A city could build a teleportation rune obelisk beneath a lake, and receive an endless flow of water coming out of the obelisk's twin. It meant that even in the heart of the desert, a determined crew could populate a town. And much to the inhumans' disgust, they did.

Now, runic magic at that time (aka around 2600), was almost entirely controlled by elves. They had invented the technomancy, and they  were the distributors of it. What little human-made runes existed belonged to Ceredell, who had, out of pure necessity, come up with their own simple versions of the cleansing rune. The result was that the populations of Losaras and Ceredell burgeoned. (Of course, as those who have read Lich-Queen will know, this will turn out to be a mistake.)

Understanding of runic magic only truly came to the humans after the Runic wars began in 2800, when the elves were forced to share their enchanted weaponry or be complicit in the genocide of humanity. The origins of almost all modern runes was from war enchantments, but it has been quite a while since they performed such functions.

Now, understand that healing magic is an excruciating and difficult medium. Even in a world proliferated with magic, healers are often only available to the richest of the rich or the lucky few who happen to know a healing mage personally. Anyone without an affinity for it has no hope of learning the simplest of healing spells, and often can only brew up the mildest of ointments. The popularisation of healing runes meant that hedge witches, who previously had no ability to truly cure anything more serious than a wart, could stand a chance at saving a life.

I hear you ask: Why not use technology? Our world has medicine, why doesn't theirs? The thing you must understand about ancient Triworld is that it was almost completely ruled by the gods, many of whom used their incredible amounts of magic to control their subjects. Technology was a threat to them, and so they made an effort to extinguish it. The only species who could and would research magicless technology were the elves, whose goddess, Renise, could not care less for what her people did.

So it was that penicillin was only ever created in the year 5000, long after Ina had murdered the last goddess. So it was that the people of Triworld struggled by, with the not-help of great prayers to their gods, endless half-baked potions, and all the preventative care they could think of. And so it was that the Runic Wars were the first step to the freedom of Triworld from its godly shackles.

Surgeons took the red-hot fireswords and turned them to self-sterilising blades and cauterisers. Doctors fashioned basic microscopes and endoscopes out of reconnaissance enchantments. Nightsoil carriers turned their mass battle-porters into refuse-porters. The gods received less desperate prayers as people turned their futile efforts towards obtaining healing glyphs.

With that, we drag Triworld kicking and screaming into the era of the Godhuntress. Runes are increasingly commonplace, most people have access to potable water, and healing magic is no longer limited to the realm of high nobility. The gods fall, one by one. People, disillusioned, begin to carve out their own futures, abandoning the rites and faiths of their forefathers.

When Ina massacres the elves for not aiding her people, forcing the few living elves to go into hiding, she inadvertently opens up another niche for humanity to carve out: Technology. In the ruins of Sylvandor, humans discover the concept of vaccines, of antibiotics, of magic that needs no magic. Why the elves, whom all possessed some form of mana-using capacity, were working on such things, they did not know. They did not care either, taking it as a windfall. 

Further advances in teleportation runes meant plumbing and heating. Further advances in enchantment meant spellbooks could be made, with each page containing a simple spell to be used at a later date. Further advances in magical theory enabled lesser mages to pick up warding spells and scraps of healing. Magic became commercialised, available in workshops, books, and even encased within houses.

Of course, in some remote areas of the world, people are still relying on the same old cleansing spell they used 4000 years ago. But that's a tiny minority in the great world of sigils, sanitation and sanation.

I could go on further, but I do believe you get the gist of the story. If you want to know anything, anything at all about Triworld, just ask. I have spent embarrassing amounts of time (think every night and at least 3h of my day everyday for 15 years) on this world, and I know it just as well as I know Earth's history.  

Thank you all for reading, and happy worldbuilding!

Taglist:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch @ramwritblr, @urnumber1star, @fortunatetragedy, @bigwipscholar, @ratedn

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@finicky-felix, @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou (Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[krysalla]

this is a request for how our creepy darling dr crane would realize and deal with Feelings towards the reader please 👉👈 i feel like he’d have trouble reconciling the mental/psychological attraction with more baser, sexual feelings and would end up either being too restrained or too uninhibited

warnings: ummm crane being a creep with no boundaries and a little freak

f!reader

Dealing with Ivy is never a pleasant experience. Her lair is a thick, humid jungle of plants that always change, teasing him as they shift the path to confuse him and lead him astray. She refuses to meet him outside of her hideaway. So, he trudges along the shifting roots and vines to get what he wants. He huffs and he puffs and he curses the bits of leaves and dirt and debris that get on his suit and into the burlap fabric of his mask.

He bats at a plant, pushing it out of his way, only for the damned thing to hit him back.

The compound better be ready.

Finally, the plants give way, done with their game, and reveal Ivy’s lab to him. And, of course, Ivy is nowhere in sight. So he huffs and puffs some more, crosses his arms over his chest as he looks over the lab. It looks untouched, even with an experiment running in the back. Another trick. He won’t be so easily turned away after all he had to walk through to get here. Jonathan digs his feet into the dirt floor. He refuses to leave without Ivy’s samples. He has spent months planning and researching for this new toxin. A new way to descend Gotham City into complete and utter chaos. The streets will be filled with people overwhelmed by their own fear and arousal. He wants them reduced to nothing but animals, to watch them burn their beloved city to the ground with their brains in overdrive from the conflict of the two heightened states. This will be his magnum opus. 

Minutes go by before he hears a noise coming from behind a curtain towards the back wall. The fabric flicks up and you duck beneath it quickly, scrubbing at the front of your denim overalls.

“Oh!” you startle when you notice him. Perhaps this venture won’t be a waste if he can get such an easy fright from you. He always carries a small case of syringes with him, just on the off chance he finds himself bored. It would be so easy, just a small pinprick.

He clears his throat, “Where is Ivy?”

“She’s busy. Something about a pesticide company, I think?” you buckle the left straps of your overalls back into place and smile, “But she told me you’d be here. I’ve got everything ready for you.”

You beckon him with a wave of the hand and he follows you, some nameless nobody, to the room you’d just come out of. You pull back the curtain and reveal rows and rows of samples and plants, all lined up neatly on the shelves. Ivy’s been up to no good recently judging by the various substances.

He reaches into his front pocket and feels the rigid line of cool metal.

“Let’s see… compound 34A…” you wander the aisles, snaking through them while occasionally checking over a few plants along the way with a thoughtful hum.

If only you would hurry up. Ivy could be back any moment and he would like to witness your fear himself for as long as possible. And it would be more beneficial to him if he got Ivy’s pheromone before he injects you. Ivy might not take well to his playing with you, if you really mean anything to her, her revenge would be swift. He taps his foot when you spend a little longer on an out of control plant. You don’t even acknowledge him or his impatience, you just pull out a little notepad from your pocket and start taking notes.

He can’t help the sharp tone in his voice, he doesn’t want to spend a second longer here than he has to. He has big plans and so little time to fulfill them. “Do you enjoy wasting my time?”

“Hmm?” you don’t even spare him a look, focused on examining the wilted leaves of a plant that looks like it's on the verge of dying.

“Who are you? I thought Ivy worked alone.”

“Well, you can’t let plants run amok like that. Fungi will spread, infect other plants, poison the fruit. Diseases run rampant. Ivy believes in the green but it still needs to be maintained and cared for. That’s why I’m here. I care for the green.” You put your notepad in the front pocket of your overalls, “You know, I was very impressed by your work on that last release of fear toxin. It was incredible.”

“Of course it was.” He doesn’t need praise. Doesn’t want it from someone as low as you on the food chain. Jonathan knows how well it went, how seamless his plans went. Even the Batman himself couldn’t stop him and that there is a badge of honor around this city. So, no, he will glaze over the compliment from the girl playing farmer’s daughter, as pretty as you might be.

He presses the latch on the case to open it.

“Self assured, huh? I like that.” You take the compound from the test tube rack and turn to him. You step into his space, close enough for him to feel your breath against the sliver of skin that shows on his neck. He’s glad for the mask, you won’t be able to see the blood rush to his cheeks and ears. Your hand slides up his chest, test tube caught between your index and middle finger, and back down to his front pocket to carefully slip the test tube there, right next to his case of syringes. “I hope this works for you, Mr. Scarecrow.”

He hopes you don't notice the shiver that runs through him.

---

As with most nights, he works late, scribbling notes on his subjects. His current ones are a man and a woman, a couple he'd picked up somewhere in the East End, are a particularly good pair of subjects. He wrote down five pages worth of notes in the three hours he had them naked and writing around on the floor. The man had beaten the woman to death in the throes of ecstasy and then slammed his head against the wall.

Cockroaches, he screamed out, had been crawling over the woman's body and his own.

They expired quicker than he thought they would. He will have to adjust the ratio of Ivy's pheromone to fear toxin.

He places his notepad down and reaches for one of the dozen others that he keeps on his desk. He needs a clean slate. Jonathan works dutifully on correcting the dosage, the chemical makeup of the sample. And his mind can't help but wander. He thinks of the gardener.

The pure pheromone sits still on the rack.

You would make a wonderful test subject.

---

He stands in a familiar corn field. Yes, he remembers it well-- the grueling summer afternoons spent tending to the field under his great grandmother's eye while he swung the scythe to cut down the dead corn stalks. Even during autumn and winter he was not granted reprieve from punishment out in the fields. Yes, this corn field is familiar.

He stands above the field, watching carefully over his crop. He cannot move. His limbs made of straw and sticks. He is wearing his burlap sack. Jonathan has become a real scarecrow.

It's peaceful.

Content with the sounds of birds and the soft beating of the sun against him, he relaxes into his post. Even if his body is strung up like he's Christ on the cross.

The stalks before him rustle. The breeze stops and the birds quiet. Not a dream then, but a nightmare, some terror just on the horizon. It’s safer than a dream. He waits, tied up on his post, and watches the slithering path of the creature in the field. It waits at the edge of the clearing.

It’s no creature full of teeth and venom ready to consume him, just you, the gardener. You emerge from between the green stalks, wearing your silly overalls and a big smile like you're happy to see him. You do not falter. You step to his post and climb up the ladder. Face to face, you stare at him curiously as your hand hovers along the side of his masked face, and he waits with bated breath for your next move.

"Hello, Mr. Scarecrow," you whisper, leaning close to his ear, "won't you join me?"

You untie the ropes around his ankles and wrists, catching him against your chest when he falls forward. It's an awkward dance down his post, your hand gripping onto the tattered burlap of his shirt and your stilted steps as you stop on each rung of the ladder, checking that he is still safe in your grasp.

A crow caws.

Finally, he is down on the ground, placed gently on his back by you.

He wants to feel you on him, even the press of your hand against the burlap would be enough. Never in his life had he wanted so badly to feel the skin of another against his. Jonathan is used to it, but it's all he thinks about, your hands, your lips, your teeth on him, anywhere so long as you touch him. All you do is hover over him, straddling his waist and watching with a gentle stare.

The sky behind you has turned dark and the crows flock to his post. A thousand eyes stare down at him.

You lean closer to his face. He wishes to hold your shoulders and drag you down to him but his body is made of straw. Your hands wander over burlap and straw and rough plaid. If he had a heart, it would be stuttering in his chest.

Mercifully, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your face falls. No longer is the kind, warm gleam in your eyes and a smile of a love-struck fool. There's no burlap. He can feel the air on his skin. His face revealed to you. No longer is he Scarecrow, but plain old lanky Jonathan Crane. He reaches for you, limbs again made of skin and bone and tissue.

You wrench yourself from him in disgust and run back towards the corn.

The crows caw in unison.

---

If he didn't have to, he wouldn't be back here. He wouldn't be storming through Ivy's lair where you play gardener in your overalls and gloves, with your little trowel and watering can. But he needs more of Ivy's compound. Weeks he spent fantasizing and dreaming that same dream of you and now, confronted with the idea that he will see you in the flesh once more makes his stomach turn with fear and embarrassment and that infuriates him. He, the master of fear, should not be so scared of a silly, little girl who wears overalls embroidered with bright flowers. He pushes at the branches a little harder, digs his feet in a little deeper into the mushrooms he steps on, tears the flowers from the bushes as he shoulders his way through the thicket.

As he inflicts his damage, the forest grows crueler, springing thicker walls of branches and makes the mud thicker to trap him. Ivy's children go to work on making it harder for him and it only angers him more and makes him more violent to the green. A vicious cycle, all because of you.

You barrel out from the bushes and shoulder him down onto the ground. He lands hard, knocks the breath right out of him, while you land softly on him, legs splayed around his waist with that same look of disgust he dreamed up.

"What are you doing!"

You hit his chest with the sides of your fists and it hurts, but it feels good, makes him feel alive, and he knows this is not just another dream. His heart beats and his lungs suck in air, and his limbs are flesh and bone. And he grabs you with one hand, just the way he wanted to in his dream, and with the other hand, he rips off his mask. He is the master of fear and he will not let some lackey scare him into submission.

The both of you are covered in mud, and his hands smear it across your face as he brings you down to a kiss.

You shake in his hold and beat your fists along his sides and his chest. He savors each second of blazing contact. In the struggle, you wrap your hands around his throat, pressing down on his windpipe. Who will be the first to break?

His lungs burn and wreak havoc in his chest as they try to pull in as much air through his nose. He holds you tighter to him and you bite his lip hard and draw blood. He lets you go. You whip away from him, leaning back on your haunches. You lick his blood from your lips and spit it back at him.

“Don’t ever touch the green like that again.”

You push his face down into the mud and clamber off of him and wander back into the wood. He follows after, his hand in his pocket, fingers circling over the latch.

[sacredpyre]

District X was the official title for the region; however, the region was more commonly referred to as Mutant Town

With the surge in Manhattan’s mutant population, combined with widespread prejudice from ordinary humans, led to the formation of a distinct mutant community in a rundown section of the city. located in Alphabet City within the East Village. Officially designated as District X, the area was more commonly known as Mutant Town.

Many residents bore physical mutations that made it impossible for them to integrate into broader human society. Additionally, a significant underground population lived in tunnels beneath the neighborhood, reminiscent of the Morlocks or the Tunnel Rats of earlier years.

Much like other ethnic enclaves in New York City—such as Chinatown, Harlem, Little Italy, and Greenwich Village—Mutant Town became a refuge for its marginalized inhabitants. Over time, the neighborhood became predominantly mutant, though some humans also resided there.

Life in Mutant Town was marked by poverty, overcrowding, and high levels of crime, including drug use, prostitution, burglary, and ongoing gang conflicts. At one point, it was described as having the highest unemployment and illiteracy rates in the country, as well as severe overcrowding rivaled only by Los Angeles.

Note:this blog does not follow the events during or after "M-day"

Notable residents:

Frankie Zapruder Aka Filthy Frankie: Mobster/crimelord main rival of Daniel Kaufman and got involved in a gang war with him over the mutant Toad Boy, whose secretions were a highly addictive drug.Powers: Mood Odor: Zapruder gives off a different odor depending on his feelings. For example when happy he smelled nice and when angry or nervous he smelled bad, at many times to the point where those around it would puke.

Daniel Kaufman aka:"Shakey":Far more ruthless than his rival, Daniel is the owner of the nightclubs Daniel's Inferno and Wildkat Klub. The later was partly full of working girls paying back loans from him. He was nicknamed "Shaky" due to his mutant powers. His bodyguard Mister Punch acted as his 'punching bag' during these episodes because he had no pain receptors.

Tarquin Berdeaux AKA Toad Boy:Not to be confused with Toad of the mutant Brotherhood,Toad Boy, a sluggish video game addict, possessed a unique ability—his body excreted a toxic substance that came to be known as "Toad Juice." After being kidnapped, his toxin was illegally sold as a hallucinogen. With the help of Absolon Mercator, Tarquin was ultimately transformed back into a normal boy

Powers:The actual nature of Tarquin's topical neurotoxin seemed to have somewhat varied effects. While generally mutants seemed to suffer severe addiction, they were able to recover from its effects if cut off. Human users, on the other hand, were shown to have undergone rapid random mutation, causing violent deaths. Tarquin's mother, however, became obsessively addicted to her son's secretions with no mention of any discreet mutation. This could imply that the lethal side effects were actually a result of the way in which the drugs were processed for street sale, as Tarquin's mother was really the only person known to absorb Tarquin's poison naturally through skin contact.

Mister M